


All for one and one for all, united we stand divided we fall

by Honey_in_the_sunshine



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 'cos without whumping them i'm not happy, Brotherhood, Brotherly Affection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insight, Love, Missing Scene, Whump, but i'll be fair and i'll try to dispense whumpness equally, but i'm better when i'm making them suffer, i'll try to write something funny too, i'm a bad person, more or less
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4814372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honey_in_the_sunshine/pseuds/Honey_in_the_sunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos, Porthos, D'Artagnan, Aramis: Four Musketeers, but also four friends, four brothers. I decided to explore their bond, their lives, their souls, through a collection of short stories, one for every chapter, focusing each on a single emotion. I also will follow the alphabetical order. </p><p>From chapter 14: "It’s been hours since they left the Palace, but try as he might, he couldn’t free his mouth to ask for his brothers’ help. He had tried, for the love of God, he had tried. As hard as his considerable force of will allowed him to. Without success. So far, his lips were tightly shut".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awkward

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, as I said I already posted this story on FF.net, but since I love it here, I thought to share it here too, in the hope you'll like it. This is a collection of some sort, every chapter will be a one-shot story based on an emotion, starting with the letter 'A' and then following the alphabetical order, if this makes any sense.  
> The first one, as you see, is Awkward, and I have a few chapters ready, but I'll gladly accept prompts. I would love for you to help me going on.  
> Sometimes stories will refer to episodes, sometimes not, I will point it out if necessary. 
> 
> The first chapter takes place after 1x02, Sleight of hand.

_"_ _All for one and one for all, united we stand divided we fall."  
_ (A. Dumas)

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

He really should have said something at some point, between that blasted explosion and Vadim's death, just a few hours ago. The blood dripping on his forehead, staining his hair even now, back to the garrison, was noticeable, maybe even the pallor of his exhausted face, or the way he dragged his feet when he walked, and there was no reason to feel embarrassed for being injured. But… he couldn't ask for help. Even if he felt faint, his head throbbing like a drum, his mouth desert dry, his stomach tossing painfully… he needed to show to the other Musketeers that he was strong, invincible and that Athos' choice – let him handle Vadim alone, undercover – had been a good one.

He was not a boy, anyway. He was a man, whether they liked it or not. He didn't need help, he could perfectly handle a little pain.

Ok.  _A lot of pain._

So he ignored Aramis' stare when he dismounted a little less gracefully than usual from his horse, landing hard on his feet and straining his already injured legs, and trying to pay no mind to his aching back he had followed is three new friends – or, at least, he hoped that soon they would become such – to the Captain's office, to report on their mission. He had felt his (aching) chest puff out with pride when Treville congratulated with him for his job, maybe someday he would really become a Musketeer, as he hoped, but after a few minutes he found out that he couldn't join the conversation any more, for his head was throbbing more and more fiercely with every passing second, and the more he stood there, still, with his back straight and his hands clasped behind him, the more he felt…  _wobble_.

Now, D'Artagnan grew up on a farm, and wasn't new to fatigue. He could handle a full 12 hours day of work without batting an eye, and he was the son of a soldier, after all, so fighting, and being hurt, was not that strange. But… this was different. He didn't simply take a few blows… and he was starting to feel just how much the explosion that had hit him with a good amount of force had worn him out.

"… surveillance has been strengthened, but it will be necessary to…"

_What is the Captain talking about, again?_

"Yes sir"

D'Artagnan looked up at those words, realizing that finally they could leave Captain's Treville office, and merely nodding his head, his lips folded into a grimace that was supposed to be a smile, he followed Aramis, the last one leaving the room, breathing deeply in the fresh air. Maybe that was what he needed to feel better…

_Or maybe not._

As soon as he descended the stairs, back in the courtyard… he couldn't help himself. He swayed, hard, so hard that his side slammed into the railing with a loud 'thud', that immediately attracted the attention of the Musketeers.

"What's wrong lad?"

Aramis, being the closer, was the first one to approach him, his arms that immediately shot up to support the young Gascon, and his brow in a frown as soon as he noticed how pale D'Artagnan was. His forehead was covered with a thin veil of sweat by now, and his eyes were suddenly watery, like he couldn't focus on what was surrounding him…

_Was D'Artagnan going to faint?_

"Notin'" the young man replied, embarrassed, leaning heavily to the banister in hope to regain his balance before the others could question him. Thus the way his vision was clouded and crowded with bright dots, wasn't helping. He hadn't eaten since the day before, and that was the only reason that kept him from being sick, he knew that, but he thought that if he could reach Bonacieux's house and his bed everything would be better. He would feel better, with no fussing from anyone else.

He was so busy trying to recover his balance while keeping a straight face that he didn't even notice the look that passed between his new friends, or the way Athos glared at him, his eyes freezing for a moment before a flash of concern crossed them. Porthos rolled his eyes, moving a few steps to help the young lad as well. "Come on, we need to take a look at those injuries" he said grabbing D'Artagnan's arm to bring him to his feet, frowning and lifting a worried look at his brothers when he all but collapsed on him.

"Whelp, can you stand?" he asked a little more forcefully than necessary, keeping the Gascon upright

"'f course" was the mumbled reply he obtained, Athos that too moved closer to the youngest of the group while Aramis, on his other side, flung D'Artagnan's arm across his shoulders to help him walk.

"Let's bring him to my apartments, I don't think he'll be conscious for long"

"Of… course I… will" slurred D'Artagnan, even if he stumbled when Porthos and Aramis moved him. Why was he so tired? So weak? Just half an hour ago he was able to run, and walk… but now he felt hot… burning… but also  _so_   _cold_ …

"He's running a fever" Aramis hissed, as soon as D'Artagnan forehead brushed against his neck, tightening his grip on him.

"Whelp, you 're up for a nice 'n long talk" Porthos sighed shaking his head, that by the look in his eyes, Athos too wasn't pleased with the way the youngster managed to hide the extension of his injuries to them for this long…

By the time they reached Athos's quarters, just a couple of minutes away from the garrison, D'Artagnan was barely conscious, and Porthos made Aramis stop to lift him effortlessly in his arms, carrying him up the stairs, to the Musketeer's bedroom. He then proceeded to strip him of his leather vest, hissing in sympathy when he saw the black and blue patchwork of bruises already forming on… well,  _everywhere_  on his young friend's body.

"It's bad, I need to check him over, his ribs might be broken" Aramis declared, his face serious and his voice stern. How could their young friend keep quiet about something like that was beyond him… what did he think, that they wouldn't care after all they had been through together?

But his hands were still feathers while examining the Gascon, even if he felt angry. Almost all of his chest was bruised, and he didn't want for him to feel any more pain.

Then, with Athos' help, he bandaged him up, moving his attention to his head… there was a large gash just near his hairline, and Aramis cleaned it before stitching it up. Finally he ran his hands slowly on his arms and legs, satisfied when he found just a few scratches there, nothing too serious  _thank God_.

"You're a fool, young one" Porthos huffed, shaking his head again, is gaze firmly on the Gascon.

But D'Artagnan didn't hear him, he was already passed out.

He came to only a few hours later, the sky already dark outside and the room silent around him. For a moment he just fought against his body to lift his eyelids, they were so heavy that they seemed made of stone, but even when he succeeded he only felt confused. Where was he? What had happened? He could see a wooden roof above his head, and a white painted wall, not freshly but in good conditions, and a closed window, with a couple of thick layers of curtains, dark white the first one, deep green the second… but so far nothing seemed familiar…

"How are you, lad?"

He almost jumped when Aramis's question interrupted the silence making him turn his head abruptly. The Musketeer sat on a chair at his right, elbows propped on his knees and his leather jacket unbuttoned enough to show a glimpse his white shirt, and of his broad chest underneath. His eyes were piercing, even if he was looking at him with a warm light in his dark brown irises.

"Where am I?" D'Artagnan slurred, squinting his eyes enough to see past Aramis. There was a room… big, with a table, and a bookcase made with dark wood, and candles were lit here and there, casting a soft yellow glow on the white walls, making everything look almost comfy, even though there wasn't much furniture in the room. Athos e Porthos were playing a game of cards at the table when he woke up, but they stood as soon as Aramis spoke, moving at his sides.

"At my apartments" Athos replied, his winter blue eyes almost intimidating so intensely they were glaring at him.

"And to answer to your second question, you fainted" Porthos added, arching his eyebrows when D'Artagnan tried to push himself into a sitting position. "Don't move, lad, you're injured"

"I'm fine" the youngster retorted, frowning when he felt swoon for his efforts, and his head started to throb viciously again… breathing was painful, and move an inch was almost too much for him, but he was stubborn, and he felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the Musketeers.

"Move, and I'll tie you to the bed" Athos deadpanned, unwavering when D'Artagnan flashed him an incredulous look

"Athos never makes empty promises, D'Artagnan, I would stay still if I were you" Aramis grinned, resting his hand on the Gascon's forehead to check his body temperature. It was still high, and he didn't like it.

"I'm fine" D'Artagnan tried again, even if this time he didn't try to move. By the look in Athos' eyes, he didn't want to meet the Musketeer's wrath…

"You are not" Athos replied, crossing his arms on his broad chest. "Why didn't you tell us that you were hurt".

A flash of guilt made D'Artagnan wince. They looked concerned underneath all, would they really have cared?

"I thought I could handle it" he grumbled, lowering his eyes and feeling something…  _warm_  spread in his chest. He didn't know why, but their reaction, thus unexpected, was not unwelcome… sure, he didn't like to be rebuked,  _that's what little boys get when they misbehave_ , but… since his father died he felt so… alone. As if the world had suddenly blown out of proportion, while he dwarfed, unable to properly stand tall against all the odds. He tried, but he realized at that moment that he felt… lost.

"And maybe you could" Aramis pointed out, barely tilting his lips, his eyes still kind. "But you didn't need to. What we are trying to tell you is that we are friends, and friends take care of each other"

"Understood?" clarified Porthos, and amused grin back on his dark, handsome face.

D'Artagnan took a moment to look at them. To  _really_  look at them. The way Porthos was waiting for his answer, close enough to the bed as to convey his support, the look in Athos' eyes, still icy but a little more… gentle, Aramis' hand that, who knows when, had slipped on his shoulder. And he couldn't restrain himself… a small, weak smile graced his lips as his head nodded as firmly as he could.

"Understood".

"Good" Athos declared, turning to go back to the table.

But D'Artagnan wasn't done yet. He raised his eyes, and awkwardly parted his lips, his cheeks growing a bit hot for what he was going to say.

"I'm sorry for…".

He left the sentence unfinished, but there was no need to say more. By the way the Musketeers looked at him, he realized that they understood.

And closing his eyes to get some rest, D'Artagnan felt, for the first time in weeks, safe.


	2. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mirror, a Musketeer... and a shared bottle of wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thank you so much for your kudos!!! And my dear Debbie and Margret, awww, I love you so much! I couldn't believe I would find here my dear friends from FF.net, you're very sweet!!!  
> Here we are with the second chapter of this collection, B as for Broken! I really hope you'll like this little work, it's a bit short but chapters will get longer soon. I started this collection a few months ago and the more I wrote it, the more I got confident with my (still weak) English, and as results my chapters got huge.  
> Anyway, thank you so much for your support, it's very important for me! Love you!

 

 

 

 _"_ _But a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more."  
_ (H.C. Andersen)

 

* * *

 

 

 

There were those moments in his life when he could feel himself shatter to pieces. When his heart looked just like a mirror, ready to reflect all those shadows trapped in his soul -  _names, faces, eyes, blames_  - to torture him, and then broke in a million of fragments, so small that he would probably never be able to put them together again. Those, though, were the moments when his friends, brothers really, stuck closer to him, as if they could understand that he couldn't be alone by simply reading his face.

_Like tonight_.

Athos was the first one of the Inseparables to enter the Ward, their favourite tavern so far in the city, his shoulders bent under the unbearable weight of his memories,  _of times so far back in the past when he had a wife, and he was happy_ , and his eyes clouded by thoughts, screams and betrayed promises. Everything seemed too loud in his head, that night, and all he wanted, no,  _all he needed_ , was a bottle of good wine to drown himself in. He paid no mind to the other customers, drunkards, brawlers, prostitutes, when he sat down landing his hat hard on the table, running a hand through his dark brown hair like there was no hope in the world. He never lifted his gaze when a young woman put a bottle in front of him, merely nodding his head and tossing her a couple of coins. He just uncapped it with is teeth, pouring the rich burgundy liquid until it spilled on the table like blood, downing it as if it was  _air_ , and he was suffocating.

Today it was the first day of march, and he couldn't avoid remembering the same day of six years ago, when, instead of sitting in a small tavern, as far away as possible from the door, he was laying on a knee high emerald green field, Anne beside him smiling at him adoringly, those crystal clear eyes promising her undying love. Just a year later Thomas was killed.

How could he stop to relive his past? How could he stop to torture himself? Did he really deserve to do so?  _Probably not_ , he thought bitterly, barely shaking his head and downing more wine, a part of him hoping that the liquor would start to affect him soon. To force him unconscious, to oblivion, where there was no pain and no sorrow, and everything was black, too black, yes, but  _oh,_  so peaceful.

But then… well. He should have expected that. The door of the tavern opened, a gasp of air ruffling the smoke-filled room, and even if he didn't lift his hurricane blue eyes to look at who had entered, he knew it was  _them_.

And he was right.

They sat at his table quietly, Aramis just lifting his hand to ask the waitress to bring more wine, removing their hats, and capes, without a word. But speaking wasn't necessary. He felt the warmth,  _their warmth_ , surround him immediately, sliding under his skin like an addicting poison, a sweet one, although he was not a man to love sweetness.

And for some time they drank in silence, the only noise around them was the one made by the other customers of the tavern. His bottle swiftly emptied, and then, only then, he felt D'Artagnan's hand rest on his bone tired shoulders, a gesture that spread more warmth through his ice cold heart.

His lips parted without his control.

"You can fight like a man, shoot like a man, talk like a man. Are you able to drink like a man too?" Athos asked, leveling his clouded with sorrow blue eyes on their younger companion. Whose lips twitched just slightly, morphing into an ironic smile.

"Try me".

Porthos e Aramis exchanged amused glances,  _of course, what else they could expect from him?_

Athos probably thought the same, because his back straightened a little, and a small flicker of amusement flashed in is eyes. D'Artagnan watched him silently pour more wine into his goblet, and in response to the look Athos gave him he simply accepted the challenge, drinking his beverage in one breath, without batting an eye.

That earned him three amused looks by his companions.

"The first one collapsing pay for all our drinks?" Porthos offered, smiling openly to his brothers,  _all of them._

"Why not" was D'Artagnan's reply, even if he knew he was not really a drinker. Especially compared to his –  _hopefully one day_   _soon_  – companions. He was too young for that, he barely had started his life as a man, he didn't even had a proper beard to caress with his calloused fingers, but to make his friend smile again he would do  _anything_. He didn't really know why Athos looked so…  _haunted_ , when he asked, that night after his rescue, Aramis explained it was because of a woman who betrayed him, nothing more was said about the matter, but it was almost unbearable to see him like that. Hollow eyes, tight lips, his handsome face exhausted. The man who lead the Inseparables, the best among the King's Musketeers, always looked so leveled, so strong, so… imperturbable. Gruff, yes, but not uncaring. And if it was necessary a drinking contest to help him overcome that moment of weakness, well, he would drink until he collapsed.

And drink they did.

And the more D'Artagnan drank, the more Athos found himself loosening up. Because it was really amusing to watch him wobble, and slobber, and babble nonsenses while he usually was so… focused. Yes, he was a hot-head always ready to get into troubles, driven by passion rather than rationality, brave with a touch of foolishness. But focused. Now… Athos had to laugh when the youngster, waving his hands animatedly, almost hit Aramis in the face. He was absolutely  _drunk_ , and amusing to watch.

"I'll tell you, gentlemen, women of Paris are impossible. How on earth could a man make them fall in love? Aramis, tell me!" the young Gascon slurred, his face flushed and his eyes glossy, waving a half-empty jug of wine in front of the Musketeer.

But Aramis was laughing too hard to reply. It was Porthos to offer to their young companion his wisdom.

"You need to court them, D'Artagnan, bring 'em flowers, compliment 'em. Witty remarks won't bring you anywhere"

"I'm not witty!" the Gascon protested, slamming his mug on the table.

Athos exchanged an amused glance with Aramis, who, by now, was in a serious need of air.

"Yes you are, lad" Porthos nodded solemnly.

D'Artagnan slapped a hand on his own face, lettin' Athos refill his cup. "I  _want_  a woman!" he whined, glaring at Porthos when he patted him in the head. "Stop doing that, I'm not a child!"

"You're cute" a shrugging Porthos replied, chugging directly his bottle.

"I'm not a dog!" D'Artagnan snorted, elbowing Aramis who had started to pet him too. "Stop it you too, pretty face!"

"That I am" Aramis retorted brazenly, winking and rising his cup in a toast.

Athos rolled his eyes good-naturedly at his brothers' antics. D'Artagnan  _was_ indeed cute, whether he liked it or not, although he would never admit it out loud. They had changed since he had unofficially joined them, he knew that. Maybe it was his innocence, which had not yet been affected by the hardship of life, maybe it was his loyalty to them, the way he looked up to them with an admiration so deep it shone through his soulful brown eyes, or his eagerness to be accepted. But changed they had, and Athos was fairly sure it was for the best.

So, as the night slipped away, the hours following each other like sand grains running through an hourglass, time marked by the mugs of wine emptied only to be filled and then drained again, Athos found himself relaxing more and more, his face still stern, like a mask of stone, but his eyes softer and warmer, grateful that he wasn't alone, even if he didn't feel up to talk. It wasn't necessary, anyway, for his friends, his  _brothers_ , didn't need to know, not now, not until he was ready. They simply wanted him to feel loved, for they knew how hard it was for him to understand, to  _believe_  that he was indeed loved.  _Very much so,_  Aramis thought, letting his gaze rest for a moment on the Musketeer.

And since Athos was a man of action, rather than words, show him the feeling was a better way to drive their point home than talking and trying to convince him.

But it was on nights like that that Athos could see what his companions were trying to convey. They sat close to each other, closer than it was necessary, their arms brushing and their legs touching, eyes never leaving the circle of their faces, moving from one another restlessly, and gratefully. Brotherly affection, devotion, and a renewed vow to always protect each other were lingering between them, like a strong wave pouring into their souls among the wine, gripping their hearts, bonding their flesh.

It was simmering in Athos's eyes when finally D'Artagnan surrendered to alcohol, clumsily dropping few coins in his cup before collapsing face down on the table, avoiding slamming his head hard against the wood only thanks to Aramis, who grabbed him just in time to stop his landing.

"A fair player" Porthos ironically observed, pointing with a nod of his head the money offered by the unconscious Gascon.

"So he is" Aramis grinned, supporting the youngster with his arm. "I think we should bring him back to madame Bonacieux".

Athos just nodded standing up, his eyes on the Gascon boy too, that Aramis easily threw over his shoulder to carry him. But, as they left the tavern, he couldn't stop looking at the mirror that was his heart. Because yes, that night it did reflect all those shadows trapped in his soul -  _names, faces, eyes, blames_  - to torture him, and then it broke in a million of fragments. But, with the help of his brothers, it reassembled, and who knows, maybe one day it would stay intact for good.


	3. Cared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His heart clutched in his chest when his thoughts wandered to his brothers. He could almost envision Athos's despair, his death another weight to crush his already overloaded shoulders, Porthos losing his precious smile and morph into a mask of despair, of pain, of grief… D'Artagnan screaming his name, loudly, so loud that his throat would probably hurt… and he gasped, abruptly, because he just couldn't stand those thoughts… to make his brothers suffer was too much for him. Simply too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, here we are with another chapter of this collection, C for Cared. Thank you so much for your kudos, bookmarks and support, really, I know I've probably said this many times already, but your support means everything to me! So don't be shy, let me know how I'm doing so far, ok? As I told you, next chapters will be far longer, this one is longer than the first two but wait and see, soon enough you'll probably beg me to write less. Of course, I won't :D I so love those guys, especially when I have the chance to whump them... I know, I'm mean. 
> 
> DebbieF: Girl, I so love you, both for your reviews and your stories!!! I can't really tell you how glad I am that you're supporting me even here, but know that I'm overwhelmed! 
> 
> Margret: You're just soooooo sweet!!!! I can't believe you're reading everything again, really, this is a marathon and you are great! Thank you dear, I really can't thank you enough!!!
> 
> Buckeye01: Thank you so much, I'm really red as a tomato for your compliments! You're sooo kind!!!
> 
> Ebm36: Hahaha yes, huge chapters coming! It's a gradual thing, I realized, but from this chapter on they just get longer and longer... I don't know, really, I just keep writing and things go a little out of hands! Aww I'm so happy you feel like you're watching episodes, I hope to keep this thing up for you, it's awesome!
> 
> Ok, back to work! Thanks, guys, really, you always make my day!

_"_ _You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it".  
_ (J. K. Rowling)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It hurt. It hurt so bad it was almost  _unbearable_ .

The rope that bound his wrists to that darn wooden pole was so tight that it cut deep through his flesh, and with his bare arms stretched painfully above his head he felt his own blood oozing from the gash and dripping along his ice-cold skin. And it was raining.  _Hard_. So much water was pouring from the sky each and every passing second that he feared that in the end he would drown, even if he was imprisoned at the center of a courtyard, already a lake of mud, and not in the middle of a river. He felt it running along his naked chest, down to the rim of his breeches, his unsteady legs, dropping in small rivulets to the ground.

He had stopped shivering some time ago, and he knew it was  _bad_. It meant that his body was failing, that it was abandoning the battlefield although he didn't want to, that the cold would soon force him to unconsciousness, accompanying him gently to his own death. But he couldn't move to prevent it. He couldn't  _fight_. His hands and feet, bare against the wet muddy soil, were bound too tight to get loose without any help, and the beating he received before being tied up didn't help his mind to stay clear, focused, while waiting for his brothers to rescue him. He felt tired,  _oh so_   _tired_ , that his eyelids were drooping, his legs were shaking, breathing was harder and harder, and there was a voice in his head hinting for him to just rest. Just for a minute. Just enough to regain some strength, to move an inch, to struggle against his bindings and escape.

_Only for a second. I could close my eyes only for a second._

No, he couldn't.  
He just  _couldn't.  
_ He knew that.

If he did close his eyes he might never open them again.

But he felt numb, tired, and  _desperate_  after three days of captivity, after three days tied up like an animal, without food, water, sleep, his muscles sore and his body beaten and bruised. A part of him was aware that he had endured worst in his past as a soldier, and he tried to hang to that truth, but between the pain and the cold he felt he might jus surrender.

_Just this time._

His head was spinning so fast that he fisted his hands, unable to even hiss when the movement made the rope pull and dig into his flesh harder.

More pain. More sorrow.

His heart clutched in his chest when his thoughts wandered to his brothers. He could almost envision Athos's despair, his death another weight to crush his already overloaded shoulders, Porthos losing his precious smile and morph into a mask of despair, of pain, of grief… D'Artagnan screaming his name, loudly, so loud that his throat would probably hurt… and he gasped, Aramis, abruptly, because he just couldn't stand those thoughts… make his brothers suffer was too much for him. Simply too much. They were his family and he couldn't bear….

A hand abruptly clamped his mouth shut from behind him, pressing his head hard to the pole, and for one moment Aramis closed his eyes, dread overwhelming him at the certainty of his death. But then a voice, barely a whisper, reached his ears, and he felt himself go completely still.

"Hang on Aramis, I'll cut you loose in a second"

_D'Artagnan._

Aramis didn't even have the time to take a deep breath, to let his lungs fill with relief. Is younger brother was already kneeling on the ground, cursing softly when he saw how tightly the bonds that held Aramis in place were tied.

"I'm sorry, I can't see almost anything" the young Gascon murmured anxiously, moving the blade of his knife against the rope and grazing the Musketeer's skin in the process, ripping out a pained hiss from his mouth. Aramis didn't have the energy to reply, anyway. But he was still conscious, and he heard clearly, so silent was the night around them, those gunshots erupting from the barrack behind him.

_Athos. Porthos._

Relief was immense and complete now that he knew that all his brothers were there to rescue him.

 _Instantaneous_.

He felt almost renewed at this knowledge, even if he was tired, cold, hungry and in  _so much pain_.

He was safe.

They were all safe.

They had found him even if he had been held captive in a godforsaken farm situated in the middle of the French countryside.

And he knew beyond any doubt that his captors would not escape. Because that bastards would never stand any chance against two enraged Musketeers.

It was written in D'Artagnan's eyes, after all, when they met is own, his younger brother's hands busy at freeing his wrists, and his face so close that he could see the pure fury beneath the chocolate brown of his irises. It was a promise of death, of revenge, it smelled like blood, and Aramis, a heartbeat before collapsing in D'Artagnan's arms, thought amusedly that it was probably a pain for his friend to not to be able to shoot those bastards himself.

But then the world spun, his eyes rolled, and Aramis couldn't even hold up his own head, his stomach convulsing and his breath hitching. He allowed D'Artagnan to lift him up in his arms, stronger than they seemed, strong enough to hold him under his back and knees. Just a few moments, and then he was lowered to the ground, far away from the barrack where his brothers were fighting for him, and then a blanket, soft,  _it smelled like horses_ , was wrapped around his torso.

"How do you feel" D'Artagnan asked, coming near his face again, his brow furrowed in worry and his lips tight in fury. His friend looked so much battered that he didn't even know where to start to take care of him. All he could do was to touch Aramis's skin, to assure himself that he was there, alive, and that it wasn't just a dream.

They had found him.

 _Finally_ , they had found him.

Aramis held his gaze, fighting exhaustion now with renewed strength. For his family. "Cold" he breathed, flinching when he felt warm hands immediately rub his arms.

"Sorry" D'Artagnan repeated, swallowing convulsively at seeing Aramis's state. He looked so pale, so very pale in the dim light of the sky, rain still pouring on them in buckets. He wasn't even shivering, and he had felt so weak in his arms. The tree under which he laid Aramis was big enough to keep them almost dry, but the Musketeer needed a fire regain some warmth, and food.

Even so, anyway, D'Artagnan did his best to comfort him, murmuring sweet nonsenses while his hands moved gently to check for wounds, cuts and bruises, just like Aramis did so many times for them in the past. Aside from the gash on his head there were no more cuts, but he knew his friends was in a bad shape. So he added another blanket atop him, and then he moved at Aramis' back, lifting him slightly from the ground to hold him against his chest, wrapping his own arms over the blankets to convey his body heat and just sitting there, feeling once again reassured by the solid presence of his friend.

_He was there. They had found him. He wasn't dead._

Those three days had been the hardest days of his young life, for D'Artagnan. It's been few months since he unofficially joined  _Les_ _Inséparables_ , as they were called among their comrades, with the hope of one day becoming a Musketeer too, and he was stunned at how deeply he felt bound to them, after so little time. There wasn't only awe in his heart. And he knew that the word 'friendship' couldn't even begin to describe that bond. So, when they realized that those bandits they were sent to arrest had a backup, and that that backup had captured Aramis… for a moment he had felt his world crumble. Ready to throw up. Athos and Porthos reacted better than him, after all he lacked their experience, but the despair they felt D'Artagnan saw it shining in their eyes in an unmistakable way, and for just a second, while calling for Aramis without getting a reply over and over, they paled, clenching their fists until their knuckles were white, before starting hunting down those bastards who dared to capture their brother.

_I wouldn't mind exchanging a few words with those worms myself._

Athos and Porthos found them half an hour later. The two Musketeers were drenched, exhausted beyond belief since they had spent the last three days looking and searching for Aramis, but they smiled when they saw their two brothers waiting for them cuddled together. Aramis, his head nestled in the crook of D'Artagnan's neck, and the young Gascon, his cheek resting against the Spaniard's locks.

Well… at least before noticing Aramis's conditions…

Athos was the first to collapse to his knees, his left hand immediately at Aramis's face, just to make sure he was still alive. Because he was so very  _pale_ , paler than he had ever seen him, his skin as cold as a pile of snow, and vulnerable like that, in D'Artagnan arms… he looked…

"Is he ok Athos?"

Porthos kneeled as well, his piercing brown eyes running feverishly over his brother's body to search for a vital sign, because he couldn't really fathom another option.

"He is really cold, has a gash on his temple, but the bleeding stopped. We need to start a fire to warm him up, and fast" D'Artagnan informed them, tightening again his hold on Aramis to move him closer to his warmer body

"On it" Athos nodded, watching as Porthos moved to lift the Musketeer in his arms. D'Artagnan took the hint and mounted his horse, motioning for Porthos to position Aramis side saddle in front of him, so that he could keep a firm hold on him while riding.

They moved as fast as they could without further harming their injured brother, stopping an hour later, far enough from the blasted barrack to prevent more unexpected 'surprises'.

"Thank God the blasted rain stopped" a still enraged Porthos growled, even if his hands were like feathers while lifting Aramis from the saddle.

"Indeed" Athos agreed, spreading a few blanket on the ground for the Musketeer and then wrapping him up safely as soon as he was laid down.

"We found his clothes, we should dress him" Porthos pointed out, starting a fire with some wood kept dry by a big tree and a few rocks

"As soon as he is dry" Athos confirmed, rubbing gently Aramis to help the warmth into his body.

"I'll start some soup for him, then. I think…. They…. Left him…"

D'Artagnan found his voice trapped in his throat because he couldn't voice it. That those bastards had likely left Aramis  _starve_. Because just considering that hideous possibility was making his whole body tremble in rage again, pure consuming rage so strong he felt his vision dim for a long, long breath… and it wasn't really a good moment to…  _explode_  and start shooting around even if he didn't have a target. Just to vent.

_Breath D'Artagnan, Aramis will be fine._

He prayed for his wishes to come true soon, because right now… he looked so…  _helpless_.

He was so pale, so darn pale under Athos's hands, his dark locks damp around his face, his eyes so glossy, so clouded in pain, his lips almost blue…

"He'll recover" was Porthos' gruff reply, who also swallowed hard as if trying to suck down that nagging thought, while adding more wood to stoke the fire, his eyes running to his brother every few seconds. "You'll see" he added mustering up some conviction, without knowing if those words were for himself or for D'Artagnan's benefit.

"Of course he'll recover" Athos stressed too, giving in to that inner voice that begged him to keep his brother closer, tighter,  _hold on Aramis_ , _just hold on!_  and lifting him against his chest, his chin lightly pressed on his comrade's curls. Not at all surprised when Porthos, done with the camp fire, came close himself, sitting on the other side of Aramis to hug him too, hoping that their joined body warmth would help the Spaniard to feel better sooner.

Athos's winter light blue eyes simply moved to watch D'Artagnan working on a soup, dumping whatever was left of their food into a iron pot already filled with water and starting to stir, sharp brown orbs darkened by emotions.

And nobody moved, until Athos declared Aramis fit to be dressed, his face relaxing just a little bit as soon as he felt his brother's skin now finally warm. So the three of them worked together, carefully, and so very gently, to ease him in is clothes, wrapping him up in blankets again when the task was done.

"We should try to wake him up, he needs to eat something" Porthos murmured, placing himself at Aramis' back to prevent him from completely lay on the cold ground.

"…I'm…. 'wake"

His voice was slurred, barely above a rustle, but for Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan it was like a miraculous balm, that healed their own heart. The burst of relief they felt hearing their brother's voice was so abrupt and immediate that the trio almost collapsed to the ground.

"How do you feel, Aramis!" Porthos asked immediately, adjusting his hold on the Musketeer to be able to see his face. A precious reddish tinge was now on his cheeks, and his eyes were clearer, even if he was far from recovered.

"I've… seen better days" Aramis murmured, his lips twitching, warmed by his brothers' obvious affection

"That's an understatement" Athos gruffly retorted, immediately reaching for some soup for his wounded brother

"Where are we?"

"A day ride from Paris" D'Artagnan answered, finding himself incapable of letting go of Aramis's hand, that, who knows when, he had grabbed, kneeling directly at his side

"Are you up for some soup? D'Artagnan here prepared it for you" Athos suggested, allowing a small smile to grace his lips, especially because he saw a hint of a blush climb up the young Gascon's cheeks at his words

"Really?" Aramis grinned tiredly, huffing a weak laugh when the youngster grumbled something like "yeah, so?". "How did you find me?" the Musketeer asked, allowing Athos to feed him with a spoon. He was far too tired to care, anyway. And he felt so… good, so warm inside at being surrounded by his brothers, that he couldn't care less if he wasn't a baby anymore, and if he should feel embarrassed at being so obviously cuddled… he knew his brothers needed to take care of him to truly realize that he was indeed there with them, to let go of the fear that had seized him during those days. Fear to lose him by the hands of those bandits. He would have done the same if their roles were reversed.

"It's been hard" Porthos sighed, tightening his grip on Aramis just a little, just to make sure he was there, alive and very much breathing. "They covered their tracks. Good for us they liked wine almost as much as Athos, 'cos they left a trail by visiting taverns to replenish"

"It took us three days, but finally a barmaid told us that a group of men had occupied an abandoned farm nearby, and there we found you" Athos confirmed, patiently feeding his brother, his hawk eyes still on Aramis's face to measure his every expression. His eyelids were drooping again, he was obviously exhausted, Athos noted, but for their relief he managed to finish his soup before falling asleep.

"Tomorrow we'll need to check him up first thing, but for now we should just let him rest" Athos said, helping Porthos to lay Aramis down so he could sleep more comfortably

"I'll stand guard, just in case" an eager D'Artagnan offered, conscious that there would be no rest for him that night

"You can take the first shift, but then you'll sleep too, we all need some rest, lad" Porthos corrected him, his voice bearing a tone of finality, ignoring the way D'Artagnan's lips parted and his eyes widened in protest.

"He's right" Athos intercepted, arching an eyebrow pointedly even if his voice remained gentle nonetheless

"Right" the young Gascon conceded, staring at his friends who moved closer to Aramis, to sandwich him between themselves again.

He felt a pang of longing at noticing once again how incredibly strong the tie between these three men was, by simply sitting there watching them fall asleep close to each other. So close, in fact, that he couldn't tell where Athos's hair became Aramis's curls, or to whom it belonged the arm that rested atop the injured Musketeer's chest, which was reassuringly moving up and down at every breath he took. He had never felt something like that before. His father had loved him, he knew that, but he was never a man inclined to physical contact if it was not motivated by some reason, an injury, for example, or illness. The Musketeers, on the other hand, although they never showed the tendency to over-express their bond – you just had to watch them closely for a couple of minutes to notice their brotherly connection, however - touched, pushed and provoked each other freely, as much as they wanted, especially Aramis and Porthos. But even the usually reserved (and brooding) Athos didn't seem particularly annoyed by this behavior. It was…  _charming_  to see, even endearing, sometimes they were childish, namely Aramis, sometimes it was to protect each other… but every single time they reached for one another, well, there was such a  _fondness_  underneath every gesture that D'Artagnan more than once caught himself pining to receive the same treatment. Or better, he longed to be allowed to behave the same way with his friends. To be a part, in short, of that strange, but tight – knotted,  _family_.

But who knows, maybe he already was, he just didn't realize it.

In fact, this was exactly what Athos was considering, as he rested beside Aramis but with his piercing sea blue irises still on the young Gascon. He didn't really understand, D'Artagnan, how fond they already were of him, so much that just a few weeks ago Porthos was wondering aloud that he couldn't remember what their life at the garrison was like before he arrived. It would take time, the older Musketeer mused, and probably, more than words, for D'Artagnan to open his eyes he would require facts.

But that was not a hindrance, Athos mused.

Sure enough, right at that moment Aramis's eyelids fluttered, and as soon as he opened his eyes, the injured Musketeer noticed the Gascon sitting alone by the fire, a forlorn look in his face, his young shoulders hunched in concern.

"Come here" the Spaniard murmured, lifting his hand a little, just enough to motion him to come closer.

"I should stand guard" D'Artagnan hesitated, lowering his soulful eyes to the ground, a note of red creeping in his cheeks

"Come here" Aramis repeated tiredly, but with confidence.

The Musketeer grinned when his younger brother surrendered immediately at his gentle reprimand, moving silently beside Athos. And his grin broadened as he saw him realize that Aramis would not rest until D'Artagnan would lay down too. The young former farm boy huffed at that, rolling his eyes, but complied nonetheless, because deep inside he felt secretly warmed by his friend's concern. So, without much fuss he stretched his back on the blanket, raising his gaze to the stars cutting through the clouds finally thinning out.

Only then Aramis sighed in contentment. He felt his chest hurt, and burn, and scratch, the pain steadily flowing his body from head to toe, and breathing was an agony, but there, on the hard ground, under the stars, surrounded by his brothers, so close he could touch them without even move, he felt safe. Loved. And  _cared_.


	4. Despicable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His body was numb when, finally, he had lifted his gaze and took in his surroundings, realizing that he probably had stood there for some time, since everyone was, by now, looking at him as if waiting for a reaction. So he moved, dejected, joining his fellow recruits to start his training day, that awful word echoing in his head over and over. Despicable. Despicable. You're despicable D'Artagnan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm having a boring day at work so I thought I could update my collection for you! How are you? Thank you so much for all your kudos, my friends, you're so kind and you keep me focused on the story! Thanks! And a big, huge, loving thank you to my fabulous reviewers!!! Guys, my heart belongs to you!
> 
> DebbieF: girl, I owe you so much for your encouraging words! Thanks, I'm glad you appreciated my last chap!  
> Snow_Glory: really? I'm always happy to know who prefers which chapter! Thanks for sharing your impressions and thanks a lot for your kind, kind words!!!  
> Margret: what can I say to you, my friend? Your reviews are always so carefully written that you keep managing to leave me speechless! Thanks my dear!!! I'm glad you still like this story!
> 
> Sorry if I can't reply more, I'm gonna get back to work, but not before giving you all a virtual bear hug! See you soon!

_"_ _The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved;  
_ _loved for ourselves,  
_ _or rather, loved in spite of ourselves"._  
(V. Hugo)

 

* * *

 

 

In the end he knew he had to tell him. D'Artagnan was an honest man, after all, and he couldn't stand the idea of keeping that kind of secret from someone he loved like a brother, even if they had known each other for barely three months. He just couldn't. He  _had to_  tell him. So, as soon as they left the Court of Miracles back to return to the garrison, he had asked him to talk in private, and then he confessed. He told the older Musketeer about the aftermath of his trial, those guards dragging him to the gallows, their attempt to stop them, his capture, tied to a wagon… how they had started immediately to look for him and, finally, his darn, damned question Aramis almost punched him for.  _"Porthos was drunk, surely it was an accident. But what if he's guilty?"._

How  _stupid_.

How deeply  _idiotic_  of him.

He felt really sorry for his lack of judgment now, with his friend safely back at the garrison. If he could he would just take back those words, erase them,  _swallow_  them. But, simple truth is, he had felt so deeply concerned in that moment for the big brave man he was so fond of, who had gone missing after being sentenced to death, that he spoke to his comrades without connecting his brain to his mouth. Deep down D'Artagnan knew that he had never really doubted Porthos, for he might be a big mountain of a man,  _scary_  if he wanted to, but his heart was golden and he felt truly, deeply honoured to be counted among his friends. To be one of the few allowed to fight by his side, bleed with him, and ride with him. He could never consider him capable of murdering someone without a reason. In cold blood.

And that's why he felt so bad, now.

Because Porthos didn't just reacted badly at his admission. As soon as D'Artagnan repeated him that blasted question he got  _downright furious_. His soulful dark eyes turned glacial lakes of rage, fists clenching, brow furrowing, mouth tightening. He looked like a statue, but a statue of a frightening warrior, ready to strike. And when the young Gascon asked for forgiveness, " _I_ _regret those words, Porthos, and I apologize, I didn't meant them the way they sounded_ ", the Musketeer had growled a deep menacing sound that immediately had both Athos and Aramis approach them, and he had glared at him hard, so hard D'Artagnan was sure he would clobber him, before turning his back and leave.

He couldn't blame him, D'Artagnan thought, sitting on his bed a day later, his head in his hands and his eyes riddled with guilt, maybe he would have reacted the same way. He knew what Porthos had felt at his admission:  _Betrayal_. He saw it in his eyes just before he turned his back to him, and no matter how sorry he felt, D'Artagnan couldn't convince him that it was just a stupid,  _stupid_  slip of his mouth.

He had tried to ask him to wait, to come back, to listen to him, but Porthos just left the garrison, and Aramis had prevented the Gascon from following him. "Give him some time, D'Artagnan. He'll come over it don't worry".

"He knows you didn't mistrust him" Athos had assured too, his piercing blue eyes lingering on their youngest for a long moment before turning to follow his comrades.

But Porthos  _didn't_.

The following day his friend didn't even greet him in the morning, when the youngster arrived at the garrison for his training, eyes downcast and heart clenched in guilt. He got up from his usual seat at the table as soon as he spotted D'Artagnan cross the arch that connected the courtyard to the bustling city, he emptied his cup of wine in a gulp, and then he left with Athos and Aramis in tow, barely sparing a glance in his direction before turning resolutely his face ahead.

The day after that wasn't better, too. D'Artagnan had reached the garrison earlier, in the hope to be able to apologize to his friend again, and maybe convince him that he was sincere, that he didn't meant to offend him, he was just concerned, worried, because Aramis and Athos knew his about past but he didn't… he didn't know if Porthos was really safe at the Court of Miracles or not, if those friends the Musketeers mentioned were really  _friends_. Enough to keep him alive.

But… it didn't go as he planned.

Oh, Porthos had heard him out all right. He stayed right there in front of the young Gascon for the duration of his speech keeping a straight face even if the younger of them spoke almost passionately,  _"Please Porthos, you need to believe me, I didn't think you murdered a man in cold blood, I know you wouldn't, I was just worried, I didn't know where you were and I let my mouth run away with me… Forgive me my friend"._  But then Porthos had turned his ice cold dark eyes on D'Artagnan, and the Gascon just knew he wasn't to be forgiven. Not that day. He had managed, somehow, to threaten whatever trust Porthos felt for him, and it didn't matter how sorry he was,  _please Porthos, just forgive me_ , the Musketeer seemed unable to do so. And that knowledge, clearly written in his friend eyes, betrayed by the stiffness of his massive figure, by the thin line of his lips and his clenched fists, shut D'Artagnan up. Totally. He couldn't find in himself anything more to say. His mind had gone blank under that stare. And then he was left there again, alone, watching the retreating back of his friend with his stomach filled with despair, and sorrow.

So he didn't pay attention to the garrison, even if most of its occupants had stopped by now to watch the exchange, and someone was murmuring at his back for being humiliated by the Musketeer's response to his apologies. He didn't feel the wind rustling past him, or the clattering sound coming from the kitchen, few steps away from him. He felt nothing. Nothing but  _shame_. He felt  _despicable_  for hurting his friend like that.

His body was numb when, finally, he had lifted his gaze and took in his surroundings, realizing that he probably had stood there for some time, since everyone was, by now, looking at him as if waiting for a reaction. So he moved, dejected, joining his fellow recruits to start his training day, that awful word echoing in his head over and over.  _Despicable. Despicable. You're despicable D'Artagnan, you know Porthos, you know he wouldn't do something like that. Ever. He's a Musketeer, as well as a friend, who saved your life more than once. But you hurt him none the less. And now he despises you._

Therefore, the day had dragged along slowly, painfully slowly, for the young Gascon. He had trained, yes, but he couldn't focus, he couldn't concentrate, he couldn't think about anything apart from Porthos's eyes, and face, and back. His  _r_ _etreating_  back. He had tried, in his mind, hundreds of words he could say to his friend in the hope to be forgiven, but how to heal the wound he had foolishly caused, so carelessly that he felt the urge to slap himself over and over?

He felt powerless.

He didn't know what to do.

He needed an advice, D'Artagnan thought, later that day, when the garrison emptied of recruits and Musketeers. But the  _Inseparables_  were nowhere to be seen right now, and he didn't have anyone else to confide in. Surely Athos and Aramis were with their brother, somewhere in a tavern to drink for a reason or another… and he didn't know if it was a good idea for him to go and look for them. He didn't wish to impose on them, especially if they didn't want him around. They could have invited him, maybe help him to talk to Porthos, but they didn't… and D'Artagnan was at loss at how he should interpret that lack of involvement. Surely they knew he made a poor mistake, right? They didn't held it against him. They couldn't be mad at him… right?

"Care for something to eat, D'Artagnan?"

The young Gascon almost jumped at Serge's question.  _When he did took seat at their usual table was beyond him_ … and, so lost in his thoughts, he didn't even noticed the man approaching…

"No, thank you Serge" he refused, resting his elbows on the table to hide his face between his hands, exhausted by all that situation. And the concern. He so wished to be seated with his friends in some tavern right now, instead of being alone wallowing in self-deprecation… if only Porthos would listen to him… if only Aramis and Athos would have stayed long enough to advise him, to suggest what to do to earn Porthos' friendship back… just a week ago he felt good, happy even, surrounded by those Musketeers he loved like brothers, even if they probably didn't reciprocate the feeling. And now… for the millionth time during those days, he felt despicable. And  _alone_.

"What is it,  _boy_ , sad that your masters left you behind?"

D'Artagnan raised his head abruptly at that, so lost in his thoughts he didn't even notice that he wasn't completely alone. Three of his fellow recruits were actually staring at him, no,  _sneering_ at him, their back leaned against the railing under the Captain's office almost casually, but their eyes examining him closely. _Marcel, Defoix_ and  _Pierre._ He had met them a couple of weeks ago, when they had joined the garrison in the hope to earn a Musketeer's pauldron, but they didn't get along very well. In fact, being D'Artagnan born and raised in a farm, they immediately treated him with an underlying disdain. Children of the French rich business class, but, respectively, second born and third born, they were sent by their families to the garrison to seek their fortune by joining the King's guard, an honorable nomination for those who couldn't aim for an inheritance. Unfortunately, they weren't particularly agreeable, and train with them it was proving, for most of the new recruits, tough. Like D'Artagnan, for instance, who, as hotheaded as he was, was smart enough not to let himself be provoked by their constant tantalizations.

Reason why they disliked him more. Well, for that, and because of his bond with the  _Inseparables_ ….

So, D'Artagnan didn't acknowledge them, instead he resumed watching the table and his own thoughts.

"What, did you lose your tongue?"

Defoix, tall, red-haired, muscular, was the unofficial leader of the trio, being him the most talented with a sword. He was good, indeed, even if when he trained he got often reprimanded for his tendency to keep beating his opponents even when he had disarmed them. A behavior unwelcome for a Musketeer, who should live by honor. But he was arrogant, self-confident, and he paid no mind to those reproaches, sure that in the end he would be rewarded. Less impetuous were his companions, Pierre and Marcel, both shorter than him, but rugged, both with short brown hair and dark eyes, the first one son of a merchant, the second raised by a businessman. They followed Defoix like lost puppies, and their leader's behavior was swiftly rubbing on them too.

D'Artagnan huffed, raising from his seat, set on avoiding any altercation with those three. He was already in a bad mood, he didn't need to fight with them and show to any Musketeer who could be watching them that he was just a boy by acting like one.

"Are you trying to avoid us,  _pet_?"

The young Gascon had to stop when the trio moved to encircle him, and he felt himself tense at their words, his blood heating up in rage even if he tried to ignore it.

"What do you want" he spat, watching them laugh at him mockingly, their hands at the hilt of their swords.

"Why, they left you behind, puppy? They grew  _tired_  of you?" Pierre hinted, mustering up courage since they outnumbered him.

"Awww stop it, Pierre, you'll make him cry" Defoix sniggered, tilting his head amused.

"You have nothing better to do than annoy me with your stupid comments?" D'Artagnan retorted, moving to step past them. Uselessly, since Marcel intercepted him by blocking his path.

"We are just  _disappointed_ " Defoix grinned maliciously, crossing his arms over his chest. "We hoped for a nice show today, instead that Musketeer,  _Porthos_ , just left without a word. Too bad… I didn't strike him as the coward type"

That was all it took for D'Artagnan to loose his cool.

"Don't you _dare_ , you scum! You are not worthy to lick his boots" the young Gascon growled, making an attempt to grab the blond recruit by his shirt. But his two friends seized him first, and D'Artagnan found himself restrained by his arms so suddenly that he stumbled back roughly.

"Now, now. Who do you think you are, his protector? Mh?" Defoix sneered at him, punching him viciously in his stomach. D'Artagnan grunted, but he raised his head defiantly.

" _I'm his friend"_ he retorted hotly, struggling to free himself, and receiving another kick in his chest for his trouble.

"His friend? Really?  _You're their puppy, you idiot!_  They keep you around because they feel sorry for you, a useless farmboy incapable to save his own father from death! You're not their friend. Do you think the other Musketeers don't know that? Wake up! Did you think they let you follow them because they deemed you valuable? Maybe good, even? No, of course _not_. You're a  _toy_  to play with, but now they've grown tired of you and got rid of you".

"Shut up" D'Artagnan snarled, managing to stifle a hiss when Marcel and Pierre tightened their grip on him, hard, probably spraining his left arm in the process. "You know  _nothing_!"

"You're  _pathetic_ " Defoix laughed out loud, "you made the big one of them cry, I'll give you that, but you're nothing more than a pain in the arse, and even those  _drunkards_  know that".

The world seemed to come to an abrupt stop at that.

" _Drunkards?"_  D'Artagnan growled, stressing every word so slowly, and so downright  _furiously,_ that Pierre and Marcel accidentally loosened their hold on him. Bad mistake. Because D'Artagnan noticed it immediately, and it took him a couple of moments to plant his elbow on Pierre's face, and his knee on Marcel's stomach, effectively freeing himself from them.

"Did you just call them  _drunkards?_ My  _friends_? The three best  _King's Musketeers_?" he stressed approaching Defoix, who, widening his eyes, back stepped a little, stunned at the rage blazing in the young Gascon's orbs. In two weeks he had seen him laughing, fighting, concentrating, even saddening. But never, not once he had that look in his eyes. And if he had to be honest with himself, it was quite… unsettling…

However, D'Artagnan didn't stop to absorb the look on his opponent's face, he was far too enraged for that. "If you knew them as I do, you wouldn't  _dare_  to speak about them like that, and not because they could shove your own arrogance down your throat without even breaking a sweat, but because they are  _the best men_  I know. And maybe you're right, they grew tired of me, they  _should_  since I always get myself into troubles, but Porthos didn't leave me like that for that reason. Because they could never consider me a toy, they would never  _disrespect_  any of us like that. They are honorable men, as well as loyal, generous, courageous, and completely selfless. He left because it was my fault, because I'm a  _fool_ , a  _stupid farmboy_  who said something he didn't think for even a second and  _offended him_. And please, just  _try_  to call him a coward again and I swear to God, I'll hurt you so bad you'll be the one crying!" he snarled, grabbing the recruit's jacket and looking at him so hard he saw him take a ragged breath.

"Understood?" D'Artagnan stressed, getting no response.

"D'Artagnan asked you a question".

The voice that interrupted them was hard, and ice cold, and D'Artagnan would have recognized it everywhere. Indeed, when he turned letting Defoix go he saw Athos staring at them, Aramis on his right, Porthos, on his left. Each of them looked rather relaxed beside the older Musketeer, but D'Artagnan, who by now knew them pretty well, didn't miss the dangerous gleam in the sharpshooter's eyes, or the way the bigger man's fists were tightly curled, his knuckles almost white. As for Athos… well… he was impassive and intimidating as always, and just one glare to the group got the trio retreating of a couple' steps.

"Yes sir" Pierre nodded, bobbing his head so fast his bangs almost covered his eyes, promptly mimicked by a wide-eyed Defoix.

"Yes sir" Marcel murmured too, his gaze moving from one Musketeer to the other while his face was flushing redder and redder.

"Good. Now  _scram_!" Porthos barked, grinning widely as the trio retreated so hastily that Defoix almost face planted in the dirt. But then he turned to D'Artagnan, and his glare softened considerably. Because… his words had moved him… the way their young one defended his honor by standing up for him... He behaved like a Musketeer, the young Gascon, today. He behaved like a  _brother_. And when he saw him lower his gaze as if he feared they would reprimand him…

Porthos moved before realizing it, and before he knew he found his own hand resting on the nape of D'Artagnan's neck.

But the young Gascon anticipated him. "I really am sorry Porthos, please, accept my apologies" he begged openly. And then he did something that struck directly to their hearts. He fell at their knees, hanging his head so low that his tresses brushed against Porthos' boots, his shoulders trembling slightly.

"I offer you my life, to atone for my offense" D'Artagnan said, waiting for his friend's reply. At that point he didn't know what to expect, but he was ready to do anything to earn Porthos' forgiveness.  _Anything_. He was going to feel sick if his friends would turn their back to him again…

So, since his gaze was firmly directed to the ground, he missed the look the three Musketeers exchanged, each of them deeply impressed by what the young man was willing to do to be forgiven. Instead, D'Artagnan felt strong hands grip his shoulders firmly, and before he knew Porthos had him on his feet, deep dark eyes on his own, so piercing that the youngest of the group felt his breath catch in his throat.

"I'm sorry, I've been too hard on you" Porthos replied, grinning kindly when he saw D'Artagnan's lips part in astonishment. So he nodded, continuing. "Trust is hard for me, and betrayal is what I fear the most. But I should 'ave known that you'd never mistrust me. We fight together every day, bleed together, ride together, and I trust you with my life, little brother. So I'm the one to be sorry, for the way I treated you when you offered me your apologies. You didn't deserve that".

"But…"

"Hush" Porthos interrupted him, but not unkindly, grinning more broadly when the youngster pouted a little. "You are forgiven if I'm forgiven"

"Of course you are!" D'Artagnan almost shouted, gripping the Musketeer's arms in his haste to reassure him. "I… I'm just glad that…". The young Gascon clamped his mouth shut, because suddenly he felt words, apologies, even explanations get stuck in his throat, and hard as he tried, he couldn't bring himself to speak without feeling his eyes brimming with tears.

But by now, Porthos, Athos and Aramis were all looking at him fondly, and more words weren't needed. Instead Porthos nodded, clapping a hand on the youngster's back, and then he enveloped him in his arms, relaxing when he felt D'Artagnan's head rest in the crook of his neck, clearly exhausted. He held him tight, an overwhelming sense of protectiveness mixed with brotherly affection and pride filling his chest, smiling at his brothers when their hands also found the young Gascon's back to lend him their own support. "It's ok, little brother, let's talk about this no more" he murmured, gaining a small nod from D'Artagnan. Who only then seemed to become aware of his position, still in Porthos arms, because he was blushing when he moved to disentangle himself from the bear hug and stand straighter.

"Come on, little brother, let's celebrate somewhere" Aramis smiled knowingly, throwing an arm around the younger's neck, who attempted a smile, especially when Porthos did the same at his other side. Athos watched them for a moment before following the small group, Aramis already asking the younger of them how much his arm hurt, since those three twisted it pretty hard, finding himself unable to suppress a grin: he was their little brother indeed.


	5. Endearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooner or later, each end everyone of them had reflected about how easily D’Artagnan had managed to find a place among them. A firm place. Such as you can’t remember how was life before his arrival, like it was unthinkable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry if I'm late with this update but I'm working on a new chapter and then I got stuck and I'm trying to find inspiration... yeah, it's not easy. Anyway here I am, I really hope you'll appreciate this one, letter E for Endearing. Please, let me know what you think, it'll help me to keep writing!!! Thanks guys for all your kudos, really, I jump on my chair every time I receive one of them so... keep clicking on that little hearts!
> 
> And now to my kind reviewers!  
> DebbieF: keep writing me those kind words and I'll have to ask you to marry me :D :D :D Yeah, I'm late with the new chapter, I started it and then... ugh... I'm stuck! I hope to finish it soon, I'll do my best!  
> Oneforall: Thank you my friend, here we are with more brotherly love! I hope you'll like it as I did when I wrote it!!!  
> Margret: Yeah, you know, me too! Porthos is a great character and he didn't get really enough space so I try to involve him more, because above all I love his protectiveness! And Serge too, indeed, I always imagine him with keen eyes, even if he usually move in the background! Thank you my dear friend for being always here for me, you don't know how much it means to me!!!

**Endearing**

 

 

 

_“Be still and know that I'm with you,_

_Be still and know I am”._

_(The Fray)_

 

 

 

Sooner or later, each and every one of them had reflected about how easily D’Artagnan had managed to find a place among them. A _firm_ place. Such as you can’t remember how life  was before his arrival, like it was unthinkable.

 

Porthos had found himself toying with that particular thought just a couple of months after the youngster charged into the garrison demanding to duel against Athos, their best swordsman, because he could be a big, rowdy man, Porthos, but he was very observant, especially when something concerned his brothers. For him, it happened one night like many others, spent drinking in a tavern after they had successfully concluded a mission: bring some letters written by the King to a Duke, he couldn’t remember clearly which one now, just to get attacked by a group of bandits, who managed to capture them before they defeated them. It had happened while seated next to D’Artagnan, pouring him some wine, watching him laugh at Aramis’ antics – he was deftly seducing the brunette barmaid to make her offering them their beverages. Just a flash of light that crossed his mind and made his smile broaden consciously, nothing more. But he knew. And he _understood_. The way Aramis was always moving his eyes toward their new little brother, as if to make sure he was there and safe,  Athos' lingering gaze, who seemed to have taken the youngster under his wing. His own protectiveness, for that matter, always there to pat him in the back reassuringly, even if he knew that D’Artagnan was quite capable himself.

 

But Aramis too was struck with that knowledge soon after his fellow Musketeer. He remembered the exact moment very clearly, also: he was standing beside D’Artagnan, behind them the splendid residence property of Comte de la Fére, and Marie Bonnaire was riding fast towards them, to reach his husband, still in their custody. He did remember the glance exchanged with the young Gascon at the time, when he saw him draw his pistol, _“I still have the scar from the last time I met her”_ D’Artagnan said, half-grinning. And just then… Aramis realized that the trio had, in some way or another, became a _quartet_. A _tightly bounded_ one, at that.

 

And, just a couple hours later on that faithful day even Athos, the most reluctant of them in the field of trust, or emotions, had had to recognize the new connection they all shared with the boy: he had saved him from the fire that was engulfing of his own mansion, after all, risking his life in the process. And maybe it was that, his rescue, maybe it was the knowledge that D’Artagnan decided to come back for him and in the end saved his life after helping him clear his name even if he came to Paris to kill him in a duel… but sitting on the grass, the heat of the fire still biting at their faces… _well_ … Athos had spilled his own secret to him, the utmost proof of his trust.

 

So, they were all aware of the young Gascon's position among them. But what they didn’t realize was that the feeling – brotherly affection, that’s what they felt for him - was _mutual_. More than they could imagine. More than they might believe. Admiration, respect, even gratitude. Those were easy to guess, they just have to read D’Artagnan’s eyes to recognize them. Those emotions shone there constantly, and whatever the trio did, or said, they were always there. Unwavering. But love… _love for them_ , as men? Well, they knew that D’Artagnan considered them his friends, maybe more so, too. That much was clear. But they lacked proofs of the depth of his affection.

 

_Until now._

 

It wasn’t unusual for D’Artagnan to be the first of the group to leave the Royal Palace, he wasn’t a Musketeer, after all, _not yet_ , so sometimes he just had to leave the trio behind to attend their duty, generally with the promise to meet them later for a drink or something. An occurrence that bothered the young Gascon to no end, but as Treville said to him a couple of times during the last few months, “ _when you’ll receive your commission_ – the Captain had no doubt he would succeed, and D’Artagnan was very grateful for his trust - _you’ll beg for some time off and you won’t get any, you better enjoy it while you can_ ”.

 

So, as many other times, that day D’Artagnan mounted his horse to reach the garrison alone, the sun already setting nestled in a rich red sky and the air smelling of fresh water and roses. Athos and Porthos, unfortunately, had to wait for the Duke of Savoy’s departure, and while he felt sorry for them, this time he was glad he didn’t have to stay as well. Parading was _boring_. And extremely exhausting.

 

Moreover, there was one though that was bothering him since that morning, one thing he needed to check as soon as possible, the lack of pauldron on his shoulder be blessed for just this one time.

 

_Aramis_.

 

After Marsac’s death, the day before, well… Aramis looked _shattered_.

 

Because if the presence of the Duke of Savoy was not enough to awaken Aramis’ nightmares, spectres about that terrible massacre his friends told him about, even if briefly, ‘cos they hadn’t really had the time to sit and talk properly during that damned week, to make matters worse the hand that tried to kill the Duke belonged to the man Aramis once considered a brother, who, furthermore, carried a shadow with him, a shadow that had the bitter aftertaste of _death_. A shadow that had risked destroying all Aramis had left in this world: his trust in their Captain, in his brothers, in his King. _Everything_.

 

But what was worst… well… was that, in the end, Aramis had to shoot him. To kill him. To take the life of the man whose self-destruction he felt responsible for. His former comrade.

 

And even at his young age D’Artagnan knew a few things about _guilt_. He still felt guilty about his father’s death, for instance. So it didn’t surprise him to be able to recognize the same guilt mirrored in Aramis’ eyes last night, when they seated with him at their usual table, in the courtyard, drinking in silence, surrounded by the heavy quilt of the night. In silence, just to comfort their marksman with their mere presence.

 

Therefore, he was worried now. Because while they were on duty at the Palace, Aramis was alone burying his friend. Even the Captain had joined them few hours ago, leaving the Spaniard by himself. And D’Artagnan knew a few things about grief, too. The most important one? It’s like a _hurricane_ , and once it has seized you, it drags you down, _strong_ , so strong that you feel immediately drown. It could happen, also, to drown. It could happen, especially without a hand to anchor yourself to the ground.

 

And maybe D’Artagnan's bond with the Musketeers was just a couple of months old, maybe he wasn’t one of them, not yet, not without achieving his own pauldron, earn a commission… maybe they didn’t even want him that close, he didn’t know… but he _loved_ them, of that he was sure, and he needed almost desperately to be that hand for Aramis. The hand that grounded him before he suffocated in his sorrow.

 

So, he wasn’t even surprised, D’Artagnan, when, lost in his thoughts, he realized he had reached the garrison in record time. As if his subconscious had brought him to the destination in his mind even if he wasn’t certain of his intentions. He just dismounted, and murmuring a vague ‘thank you’ to the stable boy he merely approached his friend, currently sat at their usual table with a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand, wincing when he saw him wobbling visibly. He was drunk, of that much the Gascon was sure, because he knew Aramis could drink more wine than that. And he felt his own heart jump in his chest at the sight of his friend in so much pain. It was _heartbreaking_.

 

“Aramis…” he called him softly, resting a hand on his trembling shoulders reassuringly

“… D’Artagnan… care for a little… wine?” he slurred, lifting a glossy glaze on the Gascon, his handsome face pale and disheveled, his back hunched under the weight of his suffering even if he was trying to manage a smile for their youngest benefit.

“Maybe later, thank you. Why don’t we go up to your quarters? We could rest for a minute, while we wait for Athos and Porthos to join us..” D’Artagnan suggested, his voice unintentionally soft, as if he was talking to a small scared child, for he doubted Aramis needed more wine..

“…’m not tired… ‘m fine…” mumbled the marksman, waving his hand dismissively

“Come on, humor me. I’m tired, even if you aren’t” D’Artagnan quietly insisted, his hands reaching for Aramis’ arm to help him stand before the marksman could even reply.

“Fine, but you bring the wine” the Musketeer pouted, letting the young Gascon lift him almost bodily from the bench, his weight resting against the youngster’s side while he wobbled more forcefully.

 

“Sure” D’Artagnan grinned, his dark eyes clouded with worry at Aramis’ obvious distress, wrapping his left arm around the Musketeer’s waist to support him while moving toward the arch that connected the courtyards to the city. Aramis, like Porthos and Athos, had rooms outside the garrison, and more often than not they spent their nights outside the regiment, mostly to avoid being scolded by Captain Treville in the morning, after getting drunk in some tavern. And while D’Artagnan knew Aramis was in no shape to walk, not far anyway, he was sure his friend wouldn’t like to wake up at the regiment. He would probably prefer some peace and quiet. So they started their trek to his friend’s apartments, slowly but steadily, D’Artagnan doing his best to keep the marksman upright even if he was mostly carrying a dead weight.

 

Bend down and lift Aramis in his arms would have been better, D’Artagnan wondered, tightening his grip on his friend slightly and keeping an eye out for troubles, but he knew that, even if he was strong enough to carry him, he couldn't do that for long. Sure enough, he was the lightest of the group, and while he knew that Porthos, but Athos and Aramis too, had had to carry him unconscious more than a couple of times, he wasn’t capable of doing that for the same length of time. Or distance. So he settled for leading Aramis as best as he could, ignoring his own exhaustion when, half an hour later, they reached his friends apartments, just a few blocks down from the garrison, out of breath but satisfied. At that point the sharpshooter was babbling nonsenses, his words slurred and his body warmed by wine, but D’Artagnan simply searched his pockets for the key and then opened the wooden door, moving slowly to have him seated on the bed.

 

Only when he had the door closed he let himself take a deep breath and move beside the Musketeer to assess the situation. And he frowned, concern stirring again in the pit of his stomach. Because Aramis was slurring, and murmuring, and babbling… but his cheeks were wet. They were wet with _tears_.

 

And D’Artagnan felt his heart constrict painfully in his chest at that sight, his mouth going dry, his eyes burn. His friend, the man he loved like a brother, was always so… full of life, a carefree smile ever present on his lips, in his eyes, enlightening his handsome face. Watching him in so much pain, so deep he could see him almost struggling for breath, was… _excruciating_.

 

He swallowed,  _hard_. Almost painfully.  He needed Athos and Porthos, but he knew that if they weren’t already there, it was because they couldn’t. Otherwise, it would be them at Aramis side, not only him.  But Aramis needed his strength, and he wouldn’t disappoint him by letting his own emotions defeat him. He could put aside his own concern, the anxiety he felt bubbling up in his chest by simply meeting Aramis’ shattered gaze, so broken, so pained, so _devastated_. He could do it, for Aramis.  So he did the first thing he could think of.

“Here, let me help you getting more comfortable” D’Artagnan suggested, forcing a small smile on his face while approaching his friend, his throat tight with emotions.

“Wine” Aramis murmured, frowning while pressing a strong hand on his own chest as if he feared his heart would soon burst through his ribs

“As soon as I removed your jacket, mh?” the young Gascon negotiated, kneeling down before the Spaniard, and moving to undress him gently, his voice honey even in his ears. He couldn’t help but approach Aramis as if he was a wounded animal, frightened, scared. He couldn’t help the burst of protectiveness that flared in his own chest at his state. He just wanted to take away his pain. Just that. Even if he felt like a little child for that thought.

 

“Cold” the Musketeer complained, weakly trying to rebel against D’Artagnan’ ministrations

“I know, I’ll be quick” the youngster promised, trying not to dwell on how much Aramis appeared _vulnerable_ as he helped him out of his leather doublet

“Why… you here” Aramis mumbled, resting his reddened eyes on the younger of them, almost curiously, but stopping his feeble struggling.

“To help” D’Artagnan simply replied, moving to remove Aramis’ boots, feeling somewhat reassured by the marksman scent… leather, earth, a hint of rain, gunpowder, flowers, and, of course, wine.

“Why” the marksman repeated, frowning, leaning on his hands to keep himself upright, even if he was trembling, and swaying.

 

D’Artagnan glared at him, as if the man had asked him the dumbest of questions. “Because you’re my _friend_ , Aramis. Do I really have to tell you?”

“Yes” the Musketeer replied dead serious, stunning D’Artagnan for a moment. So much that the Gascon’s hand stilled before going to Aramis’ waist to start and unbuckle his belt, all the while keeping his eyes trained on the sharpshooter's face.

“You are my friend, Aramis”, D’Artagnan repeated slowly, but strongly, frowning at the hint of doubt that crossed those the dark irises. “You all are. The _best_ I ever had. I would lay down my life for you, if needed”.

 

And then, when Aramis became silent, he sighed, working on removing his weapons and wondering if he had overstepped boundaries he didn’t know about. But his worries were short-lived.

“You are our _brother_ , D’Artagnan. _Not_ our friend. Our little brother”.

 

D’Artagnan stilled, and gasped, and paused at that, raising his head to meet Aramis' eyes so suddenly he almost felt a twinge of pain in his neck.

 

_What?_

_Did he meant what he said?_

 

Aramis held his gaze. Hard. Impassive. Quietly. Waiting for him to accept his words. To understand.

 

But in the end D’Artagnan just resumed his work, even if his lips were curled upwards, and his chest was warm, so very warm now….

“You’re _drunk_ ” the youngster murmured lightly

“Maybe. But I’m _honest_ too” Aramis  stressed, moaning slightly when D’Artagnan made him lay down on his bed.

He felt so dizzy…

 

“Rest now, I’ll be here when you’ll wake up” the Gascon assured him, avoiding the subject and instead sitting next to him on Aramis’ bed.

“You won’t leave?”

 

It was almost a whisper, but D’Artagnan heard him anyway.

“I won’t” he promised, his young voice rich with emotion. He was sincere, he could never leave Aramis in those conditions… so… _chained up_ by sorrow, and despair, and shadows. He would never leave him, until he was sure he could face another day without so many ghosts in his eyes. Because D’Artagnan could be young, and reckless, and a fool, but he was loyal too, and caring. And above all, Aramis was his _family_ , now. The only one he had left.

 

“You’re… ‘nearing, you ‘ow that, ‘ight?”

 

He thought Aramis was asleep, they were silent for awhile after that, but obviously he was wrong.

“What?” he asked lifting his eyebrows. Between his own thoughts, and the way Aramis slurred, he couldn’t make out what his friend said.

“I said” the sharpshooter repeated, shifting a little on the bed to make himself more comfortable, his eyes closed and his body limp. “You’re… _endearing_ , lad”.

 

D’Artagnan eyebrows shot up at that, so high they almost disappeared into his hairline. “I’m not a puppy!” he protested, even if he knew it was useless to further debate the matter, considered his friend’s drunken state

“You are” Aramis grinned tiredly, but fondly

“I’m not! Now sleep, before I knock you out” the young Gascon grumbled, trying to stifle a grin at his friend’s smile. It felt good to see a little of those clouds leave him, a glimpse of his friend between all that sorrow reappear thanks to a little joke. He felt relieved, and he could bear his teasings if that made Aramis feel better.

 

But his smile was short lived, for Aramis almost grimaced at his suggestion.

“What is it, Aramis? Where does it hurt?” he asked anxiously, moving his hands on his friends chest to check him up, unaware that he quoted the marksman most used line to perfection.

Aramis didn’t answer him immediately, but when D’Artagnan started to think he fell unconscious, he saw his lips part, and he bent down to hear him better, concern shining clearly through his deep soulful eyes.

“I see _them_ – Aramis gasped, as if his words were bleeding through him from an open wound – every time… I close my eyes… blood… cold… _I can’t_ ”.

 

And D’Artagnan felt his own blood run cold, _freezing cold_ , at that. He knew Aramis was in pain, but the way he let himself be vulnerable before him, the way he spoke, the way he winced in torment uttering those words, the way his dashing face paled almost the white shade of a blanket… he had to swallow a couple of times to stop his tears from brimming over his cheeks. Because he knew, too. He had felt that feeling too, so many times he almost doubled over in pain remembering his own nightmares. He had them every single night during his first two months in Paris. Every single night he fell asleep. And those images were so horrible, so utterly heart-shattering that he reached a point where he felt truly terrified to even think to go to sleep.

 

Then his friends had helped him somehow to overcome his grief, even if he didn't dare to ask for their help. By simply becoming his friends, they had helped… but… he still had those nightmares more often than it was healthy, and he knew he was powerless before that. That he couldn’t chase Aramis’ nightmares away, too. He was… at loss. How could he make him feel better? Just a little bit? Just enough to allow  him to rest?

 

“Shh Aramis, it’s all right” he found himself murmuring, ever so gently, his hand resting on Aramis’ cheek, warm, and soft, his beard scraping slightly at his skin. “It wasn’t your fault, Aramis. And your brothers wouldn’t want to see you suffer like that. Just rest, ok? I’ll stay here, with you”

“I’m tired” the Musketeer breathed, absentmindedly leaning on that warm, tender hand.

“Then sleep” D’Artagnan smiled sadly, brushing his fingers gently on his friend's face, relieved when he saw his brow unfurl before him, his face softening, his breath ruffling softly his hair from his forehead.

 

So he _understood_.

 

Aramis was a tactile person. It was his nature. D’Artagnan saw how often he would pat their back in reassurance, or in mirth, or just to remind them that he was there. The way he invariably reached for their arms to support them, to encourage them, to aid them to deal with their injuries, both physical and emotional. And then he was their _medic_ , due to his abilities, a job that requested physical contact to be done. And maybe also trust. So it was no wonder that he seemed to appreciate so much D’Artagnan’s hand on his cheek. And Athos didn’t say, not so long ago, that sometimes they needed to be close to each other, when one of them was in pain, in order to help them fight their demons, were they injuries or fears?

 

Suddenly, it made sense. Perfectly.

Because, now that he came to think of it, during his restless nights, when his own nightmares kept him awake, he knew he longed for a presence at his side, someone to lean to just to feel less alone. Wasn’t that the reason why he felt his friends had helped him with his grief even if he had never said a word to them about that?

 

So he simply removed his hands, ignoring Aramis’ soft sounds of protest, and circled the bed, to lay down beside the Musketeer. Then he proceeded to shed his own boots, his belt, his weapons, and then his jacket. And he had to stifle a chuckle when, after covering them both with a warm blanket, he reached for Aramis, gently encircling him with his arm, only to earn a small sigh of contentment from his friend. No, _brother_.

 

He simply lay still, letting the marksman move so that Aramis’ head was able to snuggle under his chin, one muscled arm on his chest, warm and heavy, and his legs pinning him on the bed. And when he felt that the Musketeer was comfortable, and finally relaxed, he simply let his tired eyes close, drifting asleep, feeling safer than he had ever felt before.

 

Drifting asleep too fast to hear Athos and Porthos join them an hour later, concerned for Aramis as well, just to stop at the threshold as soon as their eyes spotted them.

So he never heard Porthos murmur quietly, so quietly that only Athos was able to decipher his words. “Aren’t they _cute_?”, his voice so gentle, and so affectionate, that even the usually brooding swordsman had to grin a little.

“They are indeed”.

 

“’Little one seemed to have figured out everything on his own” Porthos grinned, moving quietly to approach the bed and take a better look at his brothers. So peaceful while resting cuddled to each other, black tresses mingling with brown curls, and limbs intertwined, that  he couldn’t fight the urge to lift the blanket a little higher, tucking them in protectively ad securely.

“He did” Athos nodded flanking him, his piercing blue eyes softly lingering on Aramis and D’Artagnan, a touch of pride, and affection flashing in them briefly, but deeply.

“ _Endearing_ , don’t you think?”.

 

Athos chuckled, shaking his head. “Tell him when he’s awake” he grinned, before sitting on a chair and starting to remove his own boots. “I’ll do that” was the amused reply from Porthos, before he too started to undress.


	6. Frightened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And she winced, helplessly, her eyes burning with tears and shame and fear, but she couldn’t escape. She couldn’t move. She felt strong arm supporting her, holding her, and Constance vaguely wondered when exactly Athos had lifted her in his arms. He was carrying her like she weighed nothing, uncaring about all those men who were watching them, Aramis at his side while they moved… somewhere. When she was able to focus again they were in a room, and judging by the simple furniture, and the smell of herbs and clean she realized they had brought her inside the infirmary. She was laying down on a bed, Aramis running a damp cloth on her arm so gently she felt impressed. He was a soldier, and the lightness of his touch was amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody, how are you? I'm having some troubles with the new chapter of this collection, so I thought that in the meantime I could update what I've already done to see if you like it, and hopefully convince my muse to come back, for God's sake! :D Your kudos are really a big boost for me, and your bookmarks make me realize that somewhere, someone is waiting to read what's next, so yeah, thanks guys, really, I can't tell you how much your support means to me! Sometimes everything out there seem just so... pointless, too hard, you know? And sharing this with you is like wrapping up in a big, warm blanket. So, again, thanks for being here.
> 
> DebbieF: My dear, I'm stuck!!! I've started the new chapter of this collection already, but I find myself unable to keep going! And what's worse, I've also started another story, Musketeers' fandom of course, that I'd like to publish around Halloween, but I's hard to finish that too... Advices? I feel like screaming!  
> OneforAll: Thank you so much for your review, really, I needed it! One never knows how important is to receive some kind of feedback until they start sharing their fanfictions, and consequently, start to feel insecure about the whole thing! I hope you'll like this one too! Thanks!  
> Margret: My friend, as I told Debbie, not only I'm stuck with this collection, but to make things worse I thought to start another story and I'm stuck with that one too!!!! I can't believe it! I'm updating here in hope to find some sort of inspiration, but still... What should I do? Sorry, it's just you always have kind words for me, here and on FF.net, and since you're such a good friend, well, I thought I could ask...
> 
> Ok, now I'll let you read this chapter, F, like Frightened. Please, if you feel up to it tell me what do you think, or if you have any prompt don't be shy. I'd love to get some help here :D

 

 

 

 _“Bran thought about it. 'Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?'_  
_'That is the only time a man can be brave,' his father told him.”  
_ _(G.R.R. Martin)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _It’s a truth universally acknowledged_ that when a man falls ill, he goes back to being a child. Well, not _every_ man. Soldiers, for example, usually don’t let themselves be intimidated by a simple flu, or a stomachache, or by any other kind of _ache_. But most men do not possess the same inner strength of a soldier. The same fortitude. And when they get sick, they acquire the peculiar ability to step back in time, to reverse into their childhood, to be more exact, bothering everyone else with complaints and tantrums worthy of little kids.

 

Like Monsieur Bonacieux, _for instance_. One evening, after a trip to Ceraux, he had come back home lamenting a mild headache, and the next morning he woke up with a sore throat, a little bit of fever, and nausea. And much to his wife's’ dismay, the beautiful Constance Bonacieux, he spent the next week bedridden, complaining, and complaining, and _complaining_ about how ill he felt, and how much his head hurt, and how nauseous he was.

 

“I’m going to die, Constance” he murmured one night, wide-eyed, grabbing his wife’s hand almost desperately, his forehead coated in sweat and his body trembling. “I’m going to die, I know it!”

“Your fever is not that high, my dear” she answered patiently, stifling a long sigh and a yawn since that wasn’t the first time he predicted his own death. And she was _tired_. She couldn’t sleep well during the last few days since he almost immediately had developed the habit of rest during the day, and complain non-stop in the night – for he felt too cold, or too hot, or his throat was dry, or his eyes throbbed – keeping her awake. And well. Constance wasn’t a whine, she was fierce, independent, strong willed, but her husband’s behavior was nerve – wracking. So, when a week later he pronounced himself incapable to leave his bed to deliver some fabrics to a new purchaser, whose home was situated just outside the city, an hour ride at most, she almost jumped at the opportunity. She couldn’t wait to be on her own for some time, just to… well… remind herself that she couldn’t kill the man in cold blood simply because he behaved like a child. _She would be hanged._

 

Luckily, Monsieur Bonacieux was more than happy to let his wife do the job.

 

At daybreak, then, Constance hitched their horse to their wagon, a big but gentle smoke coloured beast named Lune Bonacieux bought two years ago after their black stallion died, and with a bright smile softening her lips she left, ready to enjoy her day of freedom.

 

Travelling alone, at least not this close to home, didn’t bother her, after all- and for good measure she hid both her pistol and her sword, courtesy of D’Artagnan, between her chests before leaving - on the contrary she rather basked in the beautiful honey-coloured light of dawn that enveloped the city in those spring early mornings, the fist rays of sun just peeking among roofs enlightening the stone of the buildings of sweet golden luminescences. So she didn’t mind the bustle of men, wagons and animals that filled the streets already, she simply slowed her pace accordingly, roaming her eyes on the faces of her fellow citizens, or on the fruit that was overflowing from a overloaded basket, or on the tail of a cat that a second later disappeared through a door ajar. And when an hour later she crossed one of the gates of the city, immersing in the countryside, she just took a deep breath, letting the fresh air filling her lungs, sinking in a wonderful cacophony of grass, trees, sun, water and earth so blissful that her eyes closed almost on their own accord.

 

Her destination was just on the outskirts of the city, as said, so she reached the lone chalet, nestled just under a small cliff, grazed by a little wood of trees that stretched around the garden, slightly neglected, in another half an hour, halting her horse few steps away from the big, wooden door, left ajar. Absentmindedly, then, Constance made her way to the entrance, her mind full of the preparatory speech her husband requested her to demonstrate before him the evening before, _“God forbid that my acquirer feels discouraged to start a business with me because of your lack of culture, or language property, madame Bonacieux”_ , but the shouts coming from the inside of the building stopped her with her hand raised, in the process of knocking on the door.

 

Wait, _shouts_?

 

Constance tensed, and without a second thought she stilled, listening. Even with the door unclosed the words were somewhat muffled, but she could make out two men arguing, and lash out at each other… she didn’t know why, but right there, right then, she felt a thrill… something akin to fear creeping in her stomach, and immediately the need to reach for her pistol was almost… _overpowering_. Bless D’Artagnan for drilling into Constance the urge to grab for weapons, while teaching her how to defend herself…

 

Of course, that was an _absurdity_. Why would she have to arm herself? Not to mention that her husband’s purchaser would have believed her a fool would he catch a glimpse of her, standing there outside the door with a pistol in her hand. Or _worse_. He could confuse her for a thief and shoot.

 

But… that nagging urge didn’t leave her. Not at all. In fact, it actually got worse when, among those muffled shouts, she recognized few words, that combined together made her skin crawl: “We… kill… fool of a King…. Blast his head open myself… Spanish bitch”.

 

And for a long, long moment, Constance found herself completely incapable of breathing.

 

_What?_

 

Was she imagining things? Perhaps she misinterpreted those words? Surely those men inside such a dignified chalet weren’t plotting to murder the King of France, right? It couldn’t be possible…

 

But, much to Constance dismay, as she instinctively moved forward to listen the argument, it only got worse.

 

“…. I said we’ll do, Francoise! And that’s final!”

“They’ll hang us, brother! Or worse, they’ll skin us alive, and then they’ll pour boiling oil on our wounds! We won’t even get a quick death!”

“You heard me, Gaston! You bring those documents as I told you, and stop complaining!”

_Oh my God._

_Oh my dear God!_

 

Constance’s breath hitched in her throat, her eyes wide and lips parted, sheer terror starting to trickle in her veins together with her blood, pumped by her heart so fast she thought she could burst at any moment. Instead her feet moved, and before she could realize it she was outside, under the bright sun, staggering toward her wagon, her hands trembling so viciously she couldn’t even lift her skirt in attempt to avoid falling flat on her back.

 

But she regained her footing fast, faster than she ever moved, and without a second thought she thrust her hands into her chest, retrieving her pistol.

Something that, basically, saved her life. Because, falling, she slammed kind of blatantly against her wagon, spooking her horse in the process, enough to make him nicker, the sound loud enough in the otherwise quiet countryside to startle the men in the house.

 

Who obviously, since Constance was _so darn lucky_ , rushed in her direction, fully armed.

 

Constance didn’t have the time to explain herself. As soon as they burst out the door she saw the first one, big, bulky man with dark eyes and skin, dressed in fine clothes, raise his pistol and shot. She ducked merely out of instinct, something she didn’t know she had in her even if just a few months ago she had saved D’Artagnan’s life by shooting someone in the back, and for a long moment she contemplated the imminence of her own death.

 

_I’m doomed. Oh my God, I'll die here, in this godforsaken chalet._

 

She felt a chill surround her, like a cape, but thicker, so thick it almost took her breath away. And an ominous sense of dread filled her lungs as if ghostly hands were trying to choke her life away by simply suffocating her.

 

 _It’s over. It’s over_. She couldn’t stop the litany in her head. She was alone, far away from Paris, far away from help. Alone. And surrounded by two armed lunatics who probably would kill her and then bury her dead body three feet under, where no one could ever hope find it. Her husband would probably think she simply disappeared. Would he look for me? Maybe, but not for long. Their wasn’t a marriage of love, she thought wryly. And D'Artagnan? Would he suffer? Would he cry for her death? Probably. He would, indeed. And Constance felt a stab of pain through her chest at that thought. She loved him. She knew she loved him. _So very much it hurts._

 

She couldn’t die here alone, without seeing him one last time. She just couldn’t.

 

And it was that thought, to which corresponded a blaze of fury, and despair and tears, so hot she felt them burn their way down her cheeks, to shake her. Deeply. To raise her arm, level the barrel of her pistol and pull the trigger. She heard the shot rang out in the once peaceful early spring morning, scaring a few birds that flew away from the trees nearby, but she didn’t register the man’s knees buckling, and folding, and crumpling under the dead weight of the dead men, hit squarely in his chest by her bullet.

 

Not then.

 

Not when, right after him, came the second man, aiming his rapier at her. She just _reacted_. She used her now useless pistol to distract him, throwing it against him, and without thinking, moving only on her instinct of self-preservation, she stood, grabbing her sword with her.

The man, tall, slim, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes, laughed. But Constance didn’t have the chance to feel insulted by his display of obvious contempt because even while he was sniggering he found the time to level his sword, and then he thrusted.

 

Mercifully, she expected it. And she was ready to react. She dodged one, two times, parrying his third thrust with the blade of her sword, and then she flicked her wrist, distancing herself. And she fell in a kind of dance, her feet moving on their own accord, and her arm handling her sword with less clumsiness than anyone could have expected from her, her teacher’s tips almost ingrained in her body. Thrust, parry, parry, thrust, thrust. She didn't even feel her foe’s sword slash the porcelain skin of her arm cutting deep enough that her blood started to seep down her arm, producing a gash that it probably would have needed stitches. She didn’t even register the searing pain because of that gash. Adrenaline smothered everything. It sharpened her senses, barred her eyes, made her body numb with fear, fatigue, pain. She just… didn’t want to die, and her body was trying its best to keep her alive.

 

And perhaps it was because that man, Francis Dupierre, that’s was the name of the _bloody purchaser – wannabe regicide_ , underestimated her, a woman, a petite one, at that. Nevertheless, in the end she made him withdraw, one step, one more… and then his foot got caught in something, he tried to prevent from falling over, and, at the same time, thrusting again. But Constance’s sword moved faster. And he found himself impaled by her blade, embedded in his stomach.

 

Just then Constance realized.

What she heard, what she saw, what happened.

She killed two men.

She killed two individuals who now laid at her feet, two pools of steaming blood messing the lush green grass.

 

_Oh God._

_Oh dear God._

Constance was… shocked.

So utterly, deeply, despairingly shocked that for a long, long moment she just couldn’t move. Not a finger, not a foot, not even to retrieve her pistol, or release her sword. She shut down, trembling, no, shaking so hard she vaguely felt her teeth chatter.

 

And then she felt _faint_. And cold, so very cold she thought she would never feel warm again in her life. Which probably, she thought with a painful burst of terror, would end soon. She killed two men. Would they hang her? _Oh my God, what if D’Artagnan is forced to arrest me?_

She didn’t think she could feel more _frightened_ than that, Constance. But that simple image, D’Artagnan approaching her utterly devastated, D’Artagnan assisting at her own death warrant, D’Artagnan watching her hang ... it was like an earthquake. So violent, so sickening, so damn devastating that for a moment, she thought she would die of anguish.

 

_Oh my God. What I have done._

 

She couldn’t let that happen. So she did the only thing she could think of: she _reacted_. She heard them plotting against the King, right? So she searched the bodies, starting from Francoise, still oblivious to the blood that by now was coating her whole upper left arm, or of the pain, that in any other moment would probably have made her pass out, so strong she was hurting.

 

She was in a state of shock, somehow, and the only thing that kept her from screaming, and wailing, and freezing, was D’Artagnan, who couldn’t watch her hang. So she forced her trembling hands to cooperate, bracing against the tremors that were shaking viciously her slight frame, and she took everything she could: their purses. But it wasn’t enough. She knew it wasn’t enough to prove her innocence. Well, _kind of_ innocence.

 

It was then that the house caught her gaze.

 

The house…

_Weren’t they talking about documents?_

 

Again, she moved almost unconsciously. She ran to the house feeling numb, and cold, her breaths ragged, and feverishly she bolted along the entrance, without even noticing the fine rugs, the stylish furniture, the paintings. Luckily, perhaps in their haste, they left the door of the room where they were arguing opened, an indication enough for Constance about where to look for those documents. And, even better, she found what she was looking for neatly folded on a big, wooden desk situated just below a huge framed window. She was too shaken to comprehend what’s was written in those documents, and she was trembling way too much to register anything, but her eyes recognized two words, enough to explain what she heard, what triggered her… actions. “Gunpowder” and “King”.

 

So she thrusted the documents in the pocket of her dress, along with their purses, and she fled. She couldn’t remember how fast she unhitched her horse from the wagon, or how exactly she lifted her gown to mount Lune without having to sit side saddle, or how long the whole…  fight lasted. She just spurred her horse, and then she bent, letting his mane graze her fear-filled face as if its softness could reassure her, her sword still clutched in her hand, so tight her knuckles were white.

 

And she rode, fast, faster than she could remember, her left hand gripping the bridles so fiercely that if she wasn’t numb she would have felt pain, her shaking legs planted at the animal’s side so securely that she should have been sore, D’Artagnan’s face the only thing in her wrecked mind.

 

_The garrison._

_I need to reach the garrison._

_D’Artagnan will believe me._

_Oh my God._

She rode across the French countryside, which suddenly looked deathly, and scary, rather than charming and peaceful. And then through the outskirts of Paris, where wagons and men were traveling from and to the gates of the city carrying food, or animals, or goods. She rode through the bustling streets, doing her best to avoid trampling some unsuspecting folk in her terrified haste, no longer able to enjoy the smells, the colors, even the beautiful crystal blue sky that framed a perfectly spring sunny day.

 

The longest ride of her life.

When, finally, _thank God_ , she was able to cross the gateway of the garrison, Lune was so spooked and exhausted, that Constance was almost incapable to reign her to a stop.

 

And then, for the young redhead, it was like watching the world throughout a thick glass. She could see the men, the musketeers, approach her immediately, a group of young recruits interrupt their training, the stable boy step outside the stables puzzled. She heard someone shout something, the smell of horses, and earth, and food… but she couldn’t move. Suddenly she felt like her heart had taken residence in her throat, constricting her lungs, choking her breaths, crushing her chest. She felt her limbs become heavy, and her head light and everything was spinning…

She couldn’t breath…

_Why couldn't she breath?_

 

“Constance!”

 

It was like a gunshot.

And Constance flinched visibly, roughly at that exhortation. So loud that the whole garrison almost grew quiet.

Her head turned painfully fast, wide-eyed, unable to resist at the commanding tone that had called her name.

 

“Athos”

Barely a whisper, but Constance felt somewhat comforted by her newfound ability to speak again.

 

 _Athos_. Athos could help her.

He was a good man, Constance knew that, she trusted him

He could help her.

But where was D’Artagnan?

Why wasn't he here with her?

Why didn’t he run at her side?

 

“Constance, can you hear me?”

 

She blinked, realizing only then that Athos was standing just beside her, so close to her horse that his leather pauldron grazed his mane. Aramis was at his side, and he was watching her with deep unsuppressed concern. Well, no surprise there. She just rode in completely disheveled, bloody arm, death grip on the reins, spirited eyes and _Lord knows what else…_

 

“What” Constance exhaled, still breathless both from her ride and… everything else

“Here, allow me to assist you, madame”.

 

Everything was moving too fast, so fast that she couldn’t grasp what was happening around her. She couldn’t focus. She felt spinning and fainting and rolling. If only she could breath… just one, deep breath…But she trusted those men, and instinctively she obeyed, moving her leg and then letting herself slide down her horse, Athos’ strong hands grabbing securely at her waist before lowering her to the ground.

 

She swayed, as soon as her feet touched the soil. She paled, she probably would have collapsed in a blink of an eye, as soon as she was standing. But Athos was faster. He merely tightened his hold on her, Aramis’ hand immediately grabbing her arm to steady her, and oddly enough… well… she felt grounded. Comforted. _Safe_.

 

“Constance? Can you hear me? What happened?”

 

She had never dwelled on how deep and reassuring was Athos’ voice. Or how pleasant was the rich baritone of Aramis’. But they felt like velvet, a thick smooth blanket with the power of protect her against the wickedness of the world, and Constance was almost reluctant to let go. But she had to. She… needed to explain. She…

 

She lifted her gaze just in time to intercept the look that the duo exchanged over her head, Aramis’ hands working on bandaging swiftly the gash on her arm. _When did he noticed it?_

 

But now that she was paying attention to herself… well… she felt the _pain_.

 

It hit her so suddenly, and so heavily, that she staggered again, her eyes clamping shut on their own accord to stifle a groan. She could feel the blood leaving her head, dropping to her feet, and it was the most unpleasant sensation.

 

“I’m sorry Constance, I know it hurts but it’s a nasty gash and I have to bind it to stop the bleeding” Aramis immediately reassured her, his dark brown eyes gentle, and his voice soft with concern. Like she was a scared animal, something to treat with the utmost gentleness.

“Yes” she answered, even if it wasn’t the right reply. She just leaned in Athos’ embrace when he circled her waist with his arm to keep her upright, allowing her head to take refuge under his chin just for a moment, just to remember her that, at least for now, she was safe.

 

But as her eyes closed… she saw. _Them_ , I mean. She saw those eyes crystallize while the men who owned them died… she saw the blood spill from their wounds and merge with the earth… she saw the quiet that followed the fight like it was some shadow strong enough to envelope everything in its wake… herself included. And she struggled, and she gasped, for she didn’t want to inhale that venomous fog…

 

And she winced, helplessly, her eyes burning with tears and shame and fear, but she couldn’t escape. She couldn’t move. She felt strong arm supporting her, holding her, and Constance vaguely wondered when exactly Athos had lifted her in his arms. He was carrying her like she weighed nothing, uncaring about all those men who were watching them, Aramis at his side while they moved… somewhere. When she was able to focus again they were in a room, and by the simple furniture, and the smell of herbs and clean she realized they brought her inside the infirmary. She was laying down on a bed, Aramis running a damp cloth on her arm so gently she felt impressed. He was a soldier, and the lightness of his touch was amazing.

 

But she was letting herself get distracted once more. And she couldn’t afford that. She knew.

“How do you feel, Constance?”

The marksman’s question almost scared her. His voice was soft, smooth, gentle, but it sounded so loud in her hectic mind that she flinched, realizing only then that someone was holding her hand.

 

 

His gaze was soo deep and so crystal blue she almost flinched again. But at the same time he was so reassuring she felt like crying.

 

“I killed them” she murmured, her eyes filling with tears blurring her vision, her body starting to shake again

“Who did you kill, Constance?”

 

He was unwavering, Athos. And that, ironically, made her feel even safer. For his outstanding eyes were so… strong, and so trust-worthy, that she found herself incapable to feel scared. Even if she should.

 

Words started to spill from her rose-coloured mouth without she could even conceive to stop them. “My… my husband is ill and… I had to make a delivery in his place but… those men… they were talking about… oh my God – she breathed, struggling to sit up. She succeeded only because of Aramis’ help, his strong hands supporting her upright careful of the wound – they… were talking about murdering the King… and”

 

“Constance”

 

“Yes” she gasped, flashing her eyes at Aramis. Who, still very gently, was looking at her.

 

“ _Breath_ , please. You’re safe now, we’ll protect you. Do you trust us?” the musketeer asked, gifting her with a charming smile and a soft brush of his fingers on her cheek.

 

She nodded immediately, like an obedient little girl. But her eyes darkened when she resumed talking. “I got closer to… I don’t really know why, it was stupid of me to go inside that house to listen to their plans but… I heard them talking about killing the King… and when I realized it was true I tried to escape but I fell and I spooked Lune”

“Your horse?” Athos clarified, his eyes still on her pale but beautiful face

 

She nodded again. “She nickered, and they… - she closed her eyes, slowly, to gather her strength – I had my sword and my pistol with me and… when they tried to kill me, I… kill them first. I shot the first one, and then I stabbed the second…”

 

“Oh God” breathed Aramis, no longer watching Constance, concern – filled dark brown eyes. He run a hand on his handsome young face, blanching under the weight of what had happened. And then he reached over and enveloped her in his _oh_ so reassuringly strong arms as if he needed to make sure she was alive and breathing. “Did you have to fight?” he stressed finally, moving his head just enough to look at her face.

 

She blinked, forcing herself not to cry, extremely grateful when she felt Athos tighten his hold on her hand. “I did – she confirmed, her voice resolute, but shaken – I did, Aramis”

 

And then she reached for her pocket with her free hand, struggling to extract that small envelope of documents she hid her skirt. “I found these in the house” she added, handing them to Athos. Who regarded her with a long, unwavering stare before accepting the papers? It took him a long, long minute to go over them, and then he lifted his ice cold stare on Constance.

 

“Will I be arrested?” she asked quietly, something dark and painful filling her chest at that thought.

 

It was then that she saw Athos’ eyes change, and go from freezing cold to… warm summer sky. “Of course not, Constance” he assured, stroking her hand gently with his thumb. He was still holding her small hand in his bigger one. “These documents prove that there was a conspiracy to kill the King, as you said. I’ll speak to Captain Treville, but don’t be afraid. You were brave, and I'm glad that you’re safe now”.

 

Constance nodded, finally able to feel relieved after that awful, awful morning. It was… as if with his words, Athos had removed a heavy weight off her chest, so heavy she thought she would have suffocated before long beneath it. Her body was so sore, and her head was pounding so fiercely she was nauseous, but it was that weight that had troubled her… and now… she dared to feel… _hope_. To feel…

 

“Thank you” she whispered, lowering her eyes when he stood to leave the room.

 

“Don’t worry, Constance, you had every right to defend yourself, even if I didn’t know you were able to do so” Aramis assured her, still embracing her with his arms. “Now, rest a little, yes? We’ll take care of everything”.

 

She couldn’t reply, not yet. So she simply let him help her lie down again, allowing herself to take a deep breath before closing her eyes, and drifting asleep. Confident that she was safe, really safe now.

 

She slept for a while, ‘cos the sun was almost starting to set when her eyes opened, focusing on D’Artagnan’s concerned young face when they did. The jolt of happiness that filled her when she met his gaze was almost unsettling, but she managed to quell it a little, enough to stop herself before screaming his name. But he saw the flash of light in her eyes, and he was smiling openly at her when she stared at him again.

 

“How do you feel, Constance? Athos and Aramis told me what happened” he murmured softly, his hands cupping her small one with utmost care

“Better, thank you. I… I'm sorry I…”

“Sh… you’re safe, Constance. You don’t need to worry” he repeated even gentler, caressing her forehead with the tips of his fingers “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you”

“I know” she nodded, accepting his help to sit up, smiling and blushing when his hand pulled aside a curl that was grazing her lip

“You should have sent for me when Bonacieux asked you to make that delivery” he added a little more serious, his eyes burning with…

_Was he enraged?_

“I…”

But she found herself unable to muster a retort at his words… or better, at what he didn’t say. He was right. She should have never attempted to make that trip alone, no matter how close that darn chalet was… it’s been foolish of her, and she could have died.

 

“Sorry” she conceded, raising her soft azure eyes on him, her irises full of regret

“Please, don’t do that again, I’ve never seen Athos at a loss for words, and I thought I might have a heart attack when he told me what had happened to you” he stressed, tightening his hold on her hand

“I promise” she nodded fervently, shuddering when he raised her hands to his lips and caressed them with his mouth before taking her own lips in a soft, sweet kiss that made her limbs go numb. It was always like that when D’Artagnan kissed her… so outstanding and breathtaking that she felt like floating in the air… _oh, how she wished she had met him before marrying her husband.._

 

A noise interrupted them, like, a _throat-clearing_ noise.

And the young lovers were somewhat sheepish when they turned, only to find the three Inseparables behind them, looking kind of amused.

“I take you feel better, Constance” grinned Aramis, ignoring the glare Athos sent his way, or the roll of his eyes..

“Yes, thank you” smiled the redhead, blushing a lovely shade of red. But she couldn’t find it in herself to feel ashamed of her display in front of those men. She didn’t know why, really, but… well… if she could stretch the definition to ‘someone who brings chaos to my household more often than not’, she considered them friends. How could she not, when they, just a couple hours ago, treated her with so much kindness? Going so far to protect her, even when she confessed what she did?

 

_Oh my God._

_I killed two men…_

 

That thought sobered her up, enough that her beautiful face paled visibly. Something no one in the room missed. She even felt D’Artagnan gentle grip on her hands tighten…

“You did what you had to, Constance” Porthos assured, approaching her with a soft glow in his stunningly deep brown eyes. “Nobody will blame you for killing them. Especially since they were planning to murder the King” he added, somewhat baffled at the turn of the events. When they rode in earlier, Athos and Aramis welcomed them relating what had happened, and together, minus D’Artagnan, who had placed himself next to Constance to make sure she was safe and sound, they rode to the chalet Constance had told them about to look for more proofs regarding the whole situation … and even then he found it hard to believe that she had experienced such a danger. That she had fought for her life, winning her battle.

 

“You know, to be precise what you did today it was a musketeer’s duty” he added, vaguely amused, exchanging a glance with Athos and Aramis, who was grinning.

“Indeed” the marksman nodded, not missing the irony of the situation. “And you did it flawlessly. Captain Treville was impressed, maybe you should have your own pauldron”.

Constance scoffed at that, lowering her eyes, but her lips curled just a little in amusement. “I just – she sighed, shaking her head, long red curls brushing her corset – I didn’t know”

“That’s the point, Constance” Athos acknowledged, moving forward, “you defended yourself, you’ve been brave. Although I shall talk to your husband about letting you travel alone to make his deliveries” he added frowning, his eyes connecting with those of his brothers.

“I can’t believe he let you go unprotected” growled D’Artagnan, probably for the umpteenth time, rubbing his face tiredly. His heart was still beating madly since Athos told him what happened…

 

“I might have insisted a little…- Constance admitted, fierce but blushing – I had to escape from his complaints for awhile”

“Complaints?” Porthos repeated, grinning

“You have no idea” she nodded tiredly

“So, when he granted his permission, you did what? You thought to pack your weapons too?” Aramis questioned, remembering that detail just then.

His eyes widened when he saw Constance lower her gaze suddenly.

“Something like that” she mumbled, avoiding D’Artagnan for all it was worth. Unfortunately, the trio noticed their strange behavior too…

“When did you teach Constance to swordfight?” Porthos asked, bemused

“Uhm… well…”

“I asked him to – the redhead replied a bit forcefully, staring at him with fiery azure eyes – he just humored me”

“We saw the bodies, Constance. You hit the first one squarely in the chest, and the second one was far bigger than you” Athos calmly contradicted

 

She sighed. “I…”

“You taught her good” Porthos grinned, relenting, nodding when D’Artagnan looked at him with big grateful brown eyes

 

“Allow me to escort you home, Madame Bonacieux”.

 

Constance winced at the request, that sounded more like a command. She had expected Athos’ wrath, she just hoped she could convince him that D’Artagnan had nothing to do with her plan… or to calm him down, possibly. But his voice was so… freezing cold right now that she felt herself shudder…

“Of course” she managed, exchanging a rueful smile with her lover and his brothers before standing and following the musketeer outside.

 

Her home was close to the garrison, so Athos didn’t waste a second before starting his speech. As soon as they crossed the gates of the courtyard he turned his eyes on her, his face unmoving and his voice unwavering.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Constance, but Musketeers follow one rule, the most important of all: we ask for each other’s assistance. And since you helped us on so many occasions, it applies to you too. I expect you to be smarter in the future, enough to avoid something so dangerous and enough to send for one of us should the need arose. Did I make myself clear?”

“You did” Constance nodded, swallowing guilt and apprehension in a gulp of air.

 

Athos regarded her with a long stare before nodding, and softening, their nostrils filled with the smell of food, and dirt, and evening, while the red light of the setting sun was bathing the city in its shining glow. “I admire your courage, Constance – the musketeer added, his lips quivering when she stared at him almost gaping – you’d make a fine soldier, were you a man. But you’ll need to be more careful, and if you want to fight like a soldier, you’ll have to remember what’s the meaning to be one of us: brotherhood. Consider ourselves at your service from now on, should you need any help”.

 

“I… I will” she nodded dumbfounded, her chest filling with a new sense of… belonging, and warmth… she didn’t know she would ever be able to experience.

 

And her cheeks reddened when Athos raised her hand to his lips, in a gesture of utmost respect.

“Rest now, perhaps tomorrow you’ll feel more inclined to tell me about your training with D’Artagnan”.

 

And then he regarded her… _well. Gently_. And he was gone. Leaving a stunned, and flattered Constance to stare at his retreating back, her heart somewhat lightened at the knowledge that those men, who she trusted with her life even if she didn’t realize it before, respected her, and were ready to defend and lend her a hand when she felt herself… crumple.


	7. Grounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He remembered all too well the first time D’Artagnan tried to hide his injuries from them. It was the morning after they had cleared his name, saving him from being executed. D’Artagnan had joined them at the garrison and he was sparring with Porthos when, out of nowhere, he fainted, collapsing to the ground so suddenly that they had no time to grab him. Only when they carried him to the infirmary, stripping him to his chest so that Aramis could examine him, they learned about his wounds. What they found had left them speechless. His side was a big black bruise, and not only they could count his ribs, so thin he was, but a couple of them were cracked. How they boy had managed to help his brothers to save him in those conditions was still beyond him. And when he came to he still had the nerve to tell them he was fine…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody, how are you? Since I can't seem to find back the phone number of my muse I thought I could update the collection with the chapter I had already finished, so... here I am, I hope you'll like this one. I had fun when I wrote it, I know some things are maybe a little out of order, you know, literary license, but I hope you'll like the whole thing all the same. Thank you for reading, and as always, I'd love to know your opinion about this chapter.   
> But, above all, thanks to everyone who gave me their advices about how to overcome my... writer's block. I'm trying them, and yes, they are helping a lot, it's still hard to finish something but i feel better as I have something to try. You know, like many of you, writing for me is like an escape from the real word, and being unable to do it properly is pretty hard... so, really, thank you so much, it means a lot to me to know that you took time to try and help me. Thank you.
> 
> Sigmund: thank you so much, I'm trying to do as you said and, albeit slowly, I'm finally writing something, which helps me a lot! And I'm so glad you liked the last chapter about Constance... I consider her preatty awesome, and she deserved some attention! Thank you!!!  
> PGaddicted: Wow thanks!!! I'm so happy!!! And thanks to you for reading! Hope you'll like this one too!  
> Margret: my friend, I really don't know what I would do without your comments! I always wait for them, you take such a care when you write them! I didn't know you were from Germany! Ah yes, we have the same problems here, but I think you write very beautifully, i'd never thought english wasn't your mother language! I'm sure you'd make a wonderful job, should you decide to write something in the future! And your advice was awesome! I'm trying to do that, and I'm keep trying, hopefully I'll have something new to share soon enough! I'm so glad you liked the last chapter, even more so since you are reading the whole thing again, really, you have patience my friend! Thank you so so much!!!
> 
> By guys, thank you again.

 

 

 

 

 

 _“He didn't need to understand the meaning of life;  
_ _it was enough to find someone who did, and then fall asleep in his arms and sleep as a child sleeps,_  
knowing that someone stronger than you is protecting you from all evil and all danger” .  
(P. Coelho)

 

* * *

 

 

Athos was going to kill him, he _knew_ that.

Merely a couple of days ago he had promised him that he would be careful and that he wouldn’t get himself into troubles.  

 _Well… not that it was his bloody fault_. 

He didn’t really ask to be ambushed by those bandits a couple of weeks ago, nor he asked to be injured while going through his latest mission. Really, that was just bad luck, _right_?

 When the Captain told him to retrieve some documents stolen from the Royal Palace by an English spy - plans about something or another Treville didn’t inform him about - barely two days ago, he had just nodded, squaring his shoulders to make himself stand straighter, in hope to look worthy of such an honour. He wasn’t a Musketeer yet, he was just a recruit, so he had felt his chest puff up with pride at the task the Captain handed him. Usually, recruits weren’t entrusted with missions, and D’Artagnan knew this was a sign of esteem. So, when Treville requested not to failusing his firm, commanding (and sometimes scary) voice,  _“it’s of the utmost importance that you retrieve those papers, D’Artagnan, don’t disappoint me”_ , he had promised that he wouldn’t, swearing up and down to himself, while descending the stairs leading to the courtyard, that he’d prove deserving of his (hopefully sooner rather than later) Captain’s trust.

 

Unfortunately, his mission wasn’t _that_ simple. Because he didn’t just have to rescue what was stolen from the King and get over with it, but he had to do it _stealthily_. The King didn’t wish for England to know who was responsible for the planned raid, he preferred discretion, and that was a whole lot of problems. Also, that was the reason why Treville had chosen to send D’Artagnan alone: if captured, nobody outside Paris could connect him to the Musketeers, and therefore to the King, he didn’t wear a pauldron yet, after all. And, at the same time, he was talented, and he had proved himself good at working in the shadows.

 

Athos, on the other hand, hadn't liked it one bit. It was as if they were facing the Vadim – crisis all over again. Only, this time it was worse because Treville was going to send him alone. And Athos… well. He was none too pleased with the whole idea. Well, nor were Aramis or Porthos, really, but neither of them had the ability to turn their eyes into a storm, crystal blue sky irises clouding and clouding until their colour paled almost to silver, like those thunderous days when you smell the rain, and you hear the sky shouts, but the hurricane has yet to begin. And when it’ll start, it will be _ominous_.

 

Athos's eyes were crippling, and when they set on D’Artagnan, he had to restrain himself _hard_ to stifle a shudder.

 

“I can do it” the young Gascon had blurted almost immediately, straightening up again as high as he could to give himself an air of self-assuredness. It was annoying, really, that Athos still reacted like that after all those weeks working together, really, they have known him for almost three months now, and he proved himself an asset so far, right?

He was too young, D’Artagnan, and too inexperienced to read the man’s reactions for what they were: concern, and affection.

“You’ll be _alone_ ” Athos had replied, his voice calm even if his eyes were blazing, piercing through the youngster’s head as if the Musketeer could read his mind.

“They won’t see me” the Gascon had retorted, trying again to convey confidence into his voice. He needed for Athos to trust him, to believe in him, especially after the whole Vadim fiasco. The Musketeers were quick to reassure him after he killed the man, to explain him that it wasn’t his fault if Vadim had deceived him, almost succeeding in blowing them all up to pieces in the process, D’Artagnan first since the man had him tied up to those bloody gunpowder barrels. Vadim had fooled everyone, including themselves, they said. But he couldn't help himself. He still felt like he had let them down. He was entrusted with a mission: gather intelligence about Vadim’s plans, to stop him from murdering dozens of innocent people. But he wasn’t able to fulfill his duty. He was tricked into believing that he had been smart enough to deceive Vadim when it was the other way around. And he was grateful for his friends’ kind words, _even Athos had reassured him more than once_ …. Still. He felt guilty. He felt the need to prove himself smarter than that.

 

He wasn’t just a naive farmboy from Gascony, too ignorant to unmask a deceit. He was a man, a warrior, good enough and strong enough to wear the _Fleur de lys_ on his shoulder.

 

And probably Athos had found all of that in his eyes a couple of days ago, when he recounted them his mission… because, in the end, he relented. And then he had nodded, giving him his permission to leave, and follow his Captain’s orders.

 

But he also had grabbed his wrist, just before D’Artagnan could mount his horse, pinning him with a petrifying stare. “Don’t get yourself into troubles, understood? And be _careful_ ”.

 

D'Artagnan had smiled at that, shaking his head perhaps to ease the tension. “Careful Athos, or I might think that you care”.

That earned him a laugh from Porthos and Aramis, who good-naturedly messed up his hair. But even if Athos’ lips had quivered in amusement at the youngster's jest, his gaze had not wavered.

 

And that was why D’Artagnan _knew_ he was in trouble _now_.

 

Truth to be told, his mission had started smoothly. He was able to track down the spy easily enough since the man had planned to hide in a small built up area outside Guernes, a half day ride from Paris, roughly ten farms and a inn nestled by a small river, while waiting for his men to escort him to Le Havre and then sail to England. And even the retrieving part of the plan was almost too easy: he just sneaked in the spy’s room during the night, disguising himself as a farmer who passed by the inn where the man lodged.

 

It was his escape plan that didn’t _exactly_ come together.

 

The man wasn’t as asleep as D’Artagnan had believed him to be, to begin with. And he wasn’t even alone. Hidden in the room there were two more men, that jumped on the Gascon as soon as he grabbed those _darn_ papers.

 

The reason why he was now riding as fast as he could toward Paris, bruised and battered, a gash along his hairline oozing blood, probably a couple of broken ribs, a small hole in his side, courtesy of the spy’s dagger, and, worst of all, his wrist firmly tied in front of him, the rope so tight that he was unable to grab the reins, and he had to hold onto the horse’s mane.

 

A very uncomfortable position, since he still had to ride as fast an arrow to leave behind the French countryside, but he didn’t have any chance to try and unbind himself. He had managed to escape from that darn Inn by injuring the spy and one of his men, snatching the documents just before jumping out a small window that, luckily enough, overlooked a pile of hay, but now they were pursuing him.

 

So he couldn’t stop, not for a second. Mainly because he couldn’t afford the risk of being killed, losing his cargo in the process. Captain Treville’s orders were clear: bring back the papers. Period. _The mission comes first_. He just had to keep going, in the hope to get rid of them along the way.

 

However, Athos was going to _kill_ him.

 

Of that he was sure.

Assuming that his horse could ride up to Paris, to achieve that goal he would need to change his pace, and chances were that his pursuers would capture him again. Or worse, kill him, since they took his sword and his pistol when they caught him earlier. But even if he’d make it, he’d still be unable to clean up properly, enough to remove the blood from his face, for instance. Hence, Athos would probably spot his injuries in no time, and then he would be the one to run him through, since he obviously broke his promise...

 

Still, it was hardly the time to worry about the older man’s reactions. He had three men hot on his heels and two hours of ride still ahead, and since his head was throbbing like a hammer, his chest hurt so much his breathing was laboured and shallow, not to mention his wrists, the flesh burning as if it had been set on fire, he needed his focus to keep in his saddle. _Get to Paris it would be a miracle..._

 

And yet, because of D’Artagnan was stubborn, or, even better, since he could easily compete with a mule, he kept riding, covering miles and miles solely thanks to his willpower.

 Therefore, two hours later he finally saw Paris’ elegant outline rose above the horizon, the sun peeking among the clouds high in the sky, indicating that by now it had to be noon. He was so tired, so _exhausted_ , so in pain that he was almost bent over his horse’s neck, a bad thing for his injuries but unavoidable since he couldn’t find the strength to sit up properly. His vision was starting to blur, he felt nauseous and he was shaking, _hard_ , due of his efforts to complete his mission or because of he was running fever he didn’t know. 

But he was almost there.

He knew that he was supposed to dispose of his pursuers _before_ entering the city, _you know, to avoid any suspicions_ , but between losing his cargo and risking that the plan was uncovered, he had to choose priorities, and deliver those papers to the Captain was the most important thing. So he didn’t change his route, trying to come up with a plan to capture the spy while protecting his burden.

 

And, while the entrance arch of the city was getting closer, the wind rustling his sweaty hair cooling down his overheated worn-out body, D’Artagnan thought that maybe, with a little luck, _maybe,_ he could kill two birds with one stone.

 

It still was risky but… it was his best option.

 

So he slowed down, so much that he could see the three men’s frames take shape behind his back, and moving carefully to ensure he stayed within reach of their eyes he entered the city, his mind conjuring an intricate path of streets and alleys to follow so that the British would not understand where he was going until it was too late.

 

_Almost there._

_I’m almost there._

_Come on, just a few minutes._

_Hang on D’Artagnan._

 

It was _hard_. He was feeling worse and worse at every leap of his horse, beads of sweat dropping in his red-rimmed eyes burning like acid rain, arms and legs shaking and strained, and the pain… _my God_ … the _urge_ to collapse, to succumb to unconsciousness was so strong that avoid falling from his horse was all he could think about right now, oblivious to the chaos he was leaving in his wake. Men and women shouting, and cursing, and hurrying out of the way before his horse could run over them. And then goods tumbling, crates knocked over, smashed to the ground soiling the already filthy Parisian streets.

 

_But I'm almost there._

_I’m almost there._

 

And finally he saw it: _the garrison_. He didn’t even consider to slow down, D’Artagnan, to check if his pursuers were still following him. He knew that they were there, he _felt_ them, riding as fast as possible in the middle of a bustling city to reach him. He spurred his horse and entered the courtyard in a full gallop, barely managing to avoid to trample a couple of unsuspecting Musketeers who were sparring near the gates as he planted his legs in the animal's flanks to finally come to a stop, jumping down from the saddle before the beast even halted.

 

Few seconds, and then his pursuers would burst into the yard, unable to realize, in the fury of their chase, where exactly they ended up. 

_Or so he hoped._

D'Artagnan had no strength left to alert the Musketeers about their soon-to-be guests, he just hoped that they would understand soon enough, and help him to stop those men. So, adrenaline raging in his veins, the only thing, by then, keeping him standing and conscious, he marched as fast as he could toward the shooting range, grabbing the first pistol available in his tied hands, before moving right in front of the gates, aiming and ready to shoot, arms shaking so bad that he wasn’t sure he could hit his target.

 

That’s why it took him so long to register his brothers' shouts, their voices calling his name more than once, while their fellow Musketeers around him interrupted what they were doing before his arrival to look puzzled at him.

He realized the havoc he had created only when a large hand landed on his shoulder, startling him enough to make his head turn.

 

“Holy mother of God, D’Artagnan, what happened to you!” Porthos growled, deep soulful eyes filled with concern

“Are you injured?!” Aramis exclaimed, materializing at Porthos’ right with a frown

“Why your hands are bound?”

 

D’Artagnan had to bit his lower lip when Athos appeared at his other side, winter blue eyes already examining him for injuries.

 

But he didn't get the chance to answer them.

Right at that moment his three pursuers came barreling through the gates, pistols in hands and horses in full gallop, aiming at him as soon as their eyes spotted the young Gascon.

 

“There you are, _boy_ ”.

 

Not their smartest move.

 

Because as soon as their pistols raised against D'Artagnan, it was like a _thunder_. Every men in the yard, every Musketeer, and recruit, every soldier, or soldier to be, answered by unsheathing their own weapons, almost simultaneously, the clinking sound of iron that rubs against iron while the swords were drawn, and the click of muskets loaded and ready to shoot, so strong and ominous to completely paralyze the courtyard.

 

For a full minute everything went still. D’Artagnan’s eyes stared at all those men around him, cold eyes trained on the enemy, steady arms ready to fight shoulder to shoulder to defend a boy they considered one of them. And then he saw Athos, Porthos and Aramis surrounding him in a very protective stance, pistols in hands, fingers on their triggers, Porthos almost in front of him to guard him with his massive body, Aramis’ arm brushing his chest so close the marksman was to him, and Athos pressed to his other side, one strong hand resting on his back to support him.

 

“Drop your weapons, gentlemen”.

 

Athos’ voice echoed so loud in the yard that D’Artagnan was brought back from his reverie so suddenly he jumped a little, the movement triggering a burst of pain in his whole body so mighty that he would have stumbled, if the Musketeer had not tightened his grip on him.

 

But with his pain-clouded mind already starting to shut down it took him awhile to register that or anything else, so he missed the moment when his pursuers, heavily outnumbered, surrendered, only to be tied up and locked up somewhere, waiting for the Captain to determine what to do with them.

 

Next thing he knew, Aramis was gently lowering his trembling arms, dark brown irises kind and soothing, while Athos was now using both his hands to keep him upright.

“Can you hear me, D’Artagnan?”

 

Just then he realized that the marksman was talking to him. And that Porthos was handing a knife to Aramis, his brow furrowed and lips tight in anger.

“Thank you, my friend” the Spaniard nodded, accepting the blade before using it to cut the ropes that were still securing the youngster's wrists

D’Artagnan hissed, the friction caused by the blade that cut the thick rope rather painful against his already bruised skin, but Athos prevented him from pulling away, and blissfully, a couple of seconds later he was free.

“Better?” Aramis asked, flashing him a brief smile that couldn't even _try_ to reach his eyes. He was far too concerned to be jovial. But he was doing his best, since Athos and Porthos at the moment were outstandingly personifying the Rage, still as statues even if their jaws were clenched so tightly they could shatter at any moment.

 

“Yes, thank you” D’Artagnan mumbled, appreciating the Spaniard attempt to ease the situation. He could almost hear Porthos and Athos seethe with fury by now, and he didn’t really look forward to meet his mentor’s eyes…

 

“Come on, I need to take a look at your injuries” Aramis said, his dashing grin widening as he noticed his little brother’s eyes morph into something very much _puppy - like_ , as soon as they lingered on Athos' ominous face.

 

An occurrence D’Artagnan would probably deny to the death, but the truth is, the more Athos oozed rage, the more D’Artagnan turned into a cute brown-eyed small puppy, so _friggin_ endearing that even Porthos had to notice it. And as he did, he couldn’t help himself: his brow softened on his own accord and his rage dissolved in a heartbeat, crushed by that awfully cuddlesome image. So he wasn’t scowling so much anymore as he helped D’Artagnan into the infirmary, the youngster’s right arm firmly placed around his big shoulders to assist him across the yard.

 

Athos, on the other hand, remained mercifully unaware of his little brother’s pitiful gaze, and even if he supported him the whole way, his jaw was still painfully clenched, while his mind was obviously brooding over the troubles that the young man must have encountered.

 

Therefore, no one said a word until D’Artagnan was settled on the small bed situated near the wall of the infirmary, Aramis already fussing over him to check his wounds. It wasn’t until they stripped him down to his waist, revealing the extent of his injuries, that the storm blasted.

 

“What happened to you” Athos stressed, his voice gruff with rage and concern. The youngster’s torso was black and blue, his side sported a knife wound, and his forehead was coated in sweat and blood. Furthermore, by the look of him, D’Artagnan was mere seconds away from collapsing. 

 

“I’m fine” the Gascon murmured, far too exhausted to remember that those were the exact words to say if you wanted to infuriate Athos even more. Because his brothers already told him over and over: he must not try to conceal his wounds, especially when it was _obvious_ that he was injured. It didn’t matter that all the three Inseparables were more or less reluctant to admit their own pain, usually to avoid to worry their brothers, and, of course, scaring them even more. Lying was not admitted, and lying was exactly what D'Artagnan was doing.

 

“Try again” Porthos retorted firmly, anger seeping again in his voice even if he was bracing his little brother with his arms to help him sit upright very gently

 

“I…." D’Artagnan’s voice faltered as Aramis started to tend the gash on his forehead. "I… he wasn’t alone and when I tried to sneak in his room they attacked me. I escaped with the documents but… _ow_!”

“Apologies my friend” Aramis amended, wincing in sympathy as he prodded his brother’s head mindful of his gash. It looked painful enough. “No concussion, thankfully, but this gash will need stitches, as your side”

“I know” D’Artagnan nodded tiredly. A bad idea, since the movement caused him a wave of dizziness so strong that he went limp in Porthos' arms.

“Oi” the bigger Musketeer yelped in alarm, thinking he passed out. Thankfully Aramis stopped him before he could shake D’Artagna too much, already concerned by his pallor.

“Easy, my friend, D’Artagnan is dizzy, but conscious. Try to keep still, he had already upset his body too much”.

 

“I’m fine” D’Artagnan repeated, earning three eye rolls from his older brothers, his voice was so weak that it was enough to contradict him.

“I’m going to speak with Treville” Athos sighed, realizing that it was useless to try and talk some sense into D'Artagnan right now. He was far too wiped out to understand anything. He knew without a doubt that it was solely his sheer force of will that was keeping D'Artagnan conscious. The Gascon was stubborn, Athos mused while crossing the yard to reach the Captain’s office, especially when it came to ignoring his own injuries, a mix of pride and mulishness he found admiring and annoying at the same time, and he needed his full attention to try and reason with him. After all, it wasn’t the first time they had that particular conversation. And no matter how hard Athos tried to make the boy understand, he remembered all too well the resolute flare in the Gascon's eyes when he spoke to him before. Or when Aramis and Porthos tried to stick the same notion in his head. As if he thought that asking for help would make him look weak in their eyes, a burden to bear instead of an asset to rely on. A nonsense, especially among soldiers. Why, being injured went with the job, it happened. One day it was Athos the lucky one, next day it could happen to Porthos. And still, D’Artagnan felt the need to prove himself so strongly that sometimes it clouded his judgment. Something that worried Athos more than he cared to admit.

 

He remembered all too well the first time D’Artagnan tried to hide his injuries from them. It was the morning after they had cleared his name, saving him from being executed. D’Artagnan had joined them at the garrison and he was sparring with Porthos when, out of nowhere, he fainted, collapsing to the ground so suddenly that they had no time to grab him. Only when they carried him to the infirmary, stripping him to his chest so that Aramis could examine him, they learned about his wounds. What they found had left them _speechless_. His side was a big black bruise, and not only they could count his ribs, so thin he was, but a couple of them were cracked. How they boy had managed to help his brothers to save him in those conditions was still beyond him. And when he came to he still had the _nerve_ to tell them he was fine…

 

Athos grinned slightly while entering his Captain’s office, Porthos’ snort at that blatant lie had been so loud that had startled D’Artagnan…

 

“I was told D’Artagnan has returned injured, bringing the spy and his men with him” Treville stated, raising his eyes from paperwork as his Lieutenant entered the room, noticing the way his lips were slightly curled upwards

“Yes sir – Athos nodded, positioning himself in front of the big mahogany desk covered with papers and folders – from what he reported, he was able to track the spy ad retrieve the stolen documents, but the man had a backup and they pursued him”.

“Did he brought the documents back?” Treville asked, rising from his chair, a flash of concern blazing in his grey-blue eyes

“He did” Athos confirmed. “He is in the infirmary at the moment, Aramis is seeing that his wounds are tended”

“Very well, I shall see him then”.

 

Athos led the way out the door, and the two men crossed the courtyard in silence, reaching the infirmary just a minute later. Athos was surprised to find D'Artagnan still conscious despite, meanwhile, Aramis had stitched up the cut on his forehead and was now dealing with his side, and yet his stubbornness had prevented him from collapsing, as his body would have obviously wanted to do.

 

Still, that was a virtue for a soldier. Being able to stand no matter what could mean the difference between life and death of a comrade in arms. So he nodded as his eyes met the Gascon's ones, positioning at his brothers’ side to keep an eye on him.

 

Treville too took notice of his younger recruit too, and he couldn’t stifle a pang of… _something_ in his chest as soon as his gaze fall upon D’Artagnan’s body. And he frowned. The lad was slim, too much actually, and between his forehead and the wound in his side it was a wonder how he could have reached the garrison conscious…he was also pale, very much indeed, and even if he was keeping his jaw locked under Aramis’ ministrations, he was limp in Porthos protective arms, wrapped around his shoulders with such a care Treville found himself grinning a little.

 

But as soon as he parted his lips to question the lad about his mission… well. They immediately understood why D’Artagnan was clinging to consciousness with that much resolution.

 

“I’m sorry Captain – the younger of the group croaked, his voice strained by pain and exhaustion – I failed to notice that the man wasn’t alone, and when I sneaked into his room to retrieve those papers they caught me off guard. I.. – he gasped, squinting to swallow a burst of pain due to the needle that was stitching his wound – I managed to… escape but… I was unarmed and I couldn’t risk being… captured, so I thought to bring them here…”

Treville regarded him with a long stare, impressed by the young man fast thinking. Then he nodded, moving closer to D’Artagnan, who was, by now, panting.

“You did good, D’Artagnan – he said, his voice firm but not unkind, wincing when he saw the young men squirm slightly in pain – and since the spy had been captured, the mission is not compromised. Rest now, I shall have a full report in the morning”.

“Yes sir” D’Artagnan managed, before hissing in pain.

“Take care of him, I don’t want to see you in the yard for a couple of days. I suspect you’ll have your hands full keeping him confined to bed rest as much as he needs. Gentlemen” the Captain said amusedly, before turning and leaving the room.

 

“Captain” was the unanimous reply, as the trio watched him leave. Well… _almost_ unanimous…

 

“I don’t need bedrest” the fourth of them retorted, trying his best not to whine even if he was pouting.

“Of course you do” Aramis contradicted him, bandaging his waist tight enough so that his wound would be protected

“And if you try to move before Aramis gives you his permission you’ll have to answer to me” Porthos added for good measure, his voice gruff though he was already burying his hand in his little brother’s locks to soothe him.

“P’thos…” D’Artagnan complained

“None of that, D’Artagnan – Athos shut him up – you will do as we say, or _I_ will make _you_ ”.

 

The young Gascon pouted again, unhappy, and when he looked up at his mentor Athos almost groaned out loud. Why the lad must necessarily turn into the exact copy of a lost puppy when he pouted was beyond him. It was simply _unfair_.

 

Aramis couldn't stifle a chuckle as soon as he noticed his older brother predicament. Exchanging a knowing glance with a very amused Porthos, who was glad that he wasn’t the only one who found hard enough to keep composure when D’Artagnan looked at him in that way, he decided to intervene, before Athos' ice fortress melted completely robbing him of his dignity in the process.

 

“Athos is right, D’Artagnan. You promised you’d be careful, and since you came back injured, you’ll have to face the consequences” the marksman stated, ruffling his little brother’s hair before moving to tend his damaged wrists. Unlike what happened with Vadim they weren’t lacerated and bloody, but his flash was slightly rope burned and he didn’t want to fight an infection later.

“I didn’t mean to get wounded” the youngster retorted, a little less forcefully that he intended

“We know” Porthos conceded. “But you’re injured none the less, and you’ll behave”

“Or..?” D’Artagnan blurted out, mostly because he felt really worn out. Otherwise, he would have never challenged his friends that way. He knew, deep down, that they were just worried about him, and he felt beyond grateful for that. For their brotherhood. But he was young, and inexperienced, and every time they fussed over him he feared they would start considering him a burden. Someone to care for, but not an equal.

 

Nevertheless, he had done it. He had challenged Athos. _What a stupid mistake…_

 

D’Artagnan cursed under his breath as soon as he saw his mentor’s eyes narrowing, and then overcasting, wincing visibly when they pinned him firmly in place, light blue irises turning paler and paler, almost a hurricane shade. _Now he had no way out the hole he dug himself into..._

 

“ _Or_ – Athos replied, stressing each syllable in the process while staring at him unwavering – I will tie you up, and I won’t release you until you will be recovered. Understood?”

D’Artagnan nodded widely, like a child properly scolded, before lowering his gaze in shame.

Too bad, or he would have seen how his brothers’ eyes softened immediately, Porthos chortling fondly as he moved to help him lay down, while Aramis rolled his eyes amused.

“Now rest, little one” the marksman grinned, supporting his head so that D'Artagnan could drink his medicine before covering him with a thick blanket and positioning himself in a chair nearby, legs propped on the bed.

 

Obediently D’Artagnan closed his eyes, thoroughly exhausted.

But he fell asleep only some time later. Specifically when he felt Porthos move on the floor next to him, his warm shoulder pressing lightly on his right leg. And when Athos took place on the bed with him, a rough hand stroking his hair with obvious affection.

 

He fell asleep leaning in the warmth of their touch, his lips curling on their own accord even if he was mostly unconscious by now.

Athos might have _grounded_ him. But D’Artagnan knew he would bear whatever punishment if that meant having his brothers at his side.

 


	8. Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They joined him in a moment.
> 
> The youngster didn’t even had the time consider the idea of lying to justify his position that someone grabbed him to keep him upright, while someone else moved his arm, hawk-sharp eyes spotting the patch of blood on his shirt immediately.
> 
> “You tore the stitches”.
> 
> Darn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! How are you? I'm so glad to be able to post a new chapter of this collection, letter H for Helpless. I had a few harsh months and for awhile I wasn't able to write a single word, and I couldn't even update my work here, so I'm grateful I've found again my balance. I'm working on a new chapter, letter O, so I'll update here as often as possible to catch up with the other chapters I've already finished, and share the new one soon! 
> 
> But first... as I said, I had a hard time recently and one of the effects was that I couldn't write, for the life of me, but as I explained it, some friends - really awesome people - shared a few precious words with my, trying to help:
> 
> DebbieF, Margret: I don't even know where to start to thank you. You are the best, and I'm so grateful for your kind, adorable words that I still find myself speechless. Thank you, for your help and for your reviews, I won't forget them.  
> Buckeye01: Thank you, my friend, I'm glad you liked the last chapter, I hope you'll find this one good too!!!
> 
> Also, I need to apologize because this chapter, Helpless, is connected to the last one. So, to really enjoy it, my advice is to read that too, Grounded, I mean. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I couldn’t stifle the urge to keep going with what happened during the last episode of this collection. I don’t know if you’ll appreciate it, but I had to write it :D
> 
> Ok, no more delaying, thanks everybody for all your comments, and kudos too, all the authors know how important is to get some kind of feedback, it helps with keep writing, more than you know! I love you! Se you very soon!

 

 

_“Because brothers don’t let each other wander in the dark alone”.  
_ (J. Perry)

 

 

* * *

 

Of course, Athos’-none-too-veiled-threat-urged compliance left D’Artagnan as soon as the sun risen. If normally the Gascon wasn’t one to dwell too much in bed, in sickness as in health - _particularly in sickness, that feeling weak spurred his need to prove himself strong, it mattered little if he had a broken leg or a musket wound, languishing between the covers was stuff for old men and he had a Musketeer’s pauldron to conquer_ \- that morning he felt particularly restless. The sky, or, at least, the blue wedge that he could glimpse beyond the small window on the wall of his temporary room, a long thin strip of indigo between the wooden frame and the roof of the front building, seemed to promise a beautiful sunny day, and after a mission he always felt a residual energy to burn in his bones. So, even before he could blink away the last trimmings of sleep that glued to each other his eyelashes, the youngster had already decided that he felt better that morning. Therefore, since his health had improved, he had already fulfilled his brothers' requests.

 

After all, he had to report to Treville, right?

 

The simple act of lifting his head from the pillow, however, turned out a little thornier than D'Artagnan had expected. As he tried to move his neck he realized that, during the night, a blacksmith must have somehow taken up residence in his skull. And judging by how much his head throbbed, the aforementioned blacksmith was probably working his arse off... But if that was not enough, then, trying to contract his muscles reminded him that not all of his ribs were intact and that there was always that one to injury on his side to keep in mind, if he didn’t want to pass out before gaining his freedom.

 

The real obstacle, however - and when D'Artagnan saw it he almost groaned out loud - was Porthos.

 

_Damn._

 

Asleep with his back against the wall next to his bed, arms folded across his broad chest, head tilted, feet crossed on the mattress, in shirt sleeves and breeches. Now, _that_ was a problem.

 

Then again, D'Artagnan was a Gascon. Certainly he could not be disheartened by such drawback, could he?

 

Moving to a sitting position required a bit longer than he expected, ‘cos as soon as he moved a fiery blade of pain awoke on his side, burning his flesh so much that the young man had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming loudly. _Yeah, it was excruciating like that_. Like to be pierced with a knife, slowly, inexorably, his breath stuck in his chest and his eyes crowded by a harassing swarm of bright dots, his throat working convulsively to swallow sounds, colors and smells swirling around him so fast that for a long moment he thought he would pass out. But clutching to his sheer force of will, trickles of sweat already covering his skin gluing strands of hair to his wan face, D'Artagnan persisted, propping one hand to the mattress to keep from slipping back into the pillows.

_One last effort._

_A small push, and it’s done._

 

Struggling to control his shallow breathing, the young soon to be Musketeer braced himself with his right arm, trying to focus on anything else that wasn’t the pain he felt, his mouth chewing between his teeth a colorful sequence of expletives that only thanks to his stubbornness never took the form of a sound, for Porthos was close and he wasn’t a heavy sleeper.

_Far from, indeed._

 

The room was spinning when he managed to open his eyes again. Was it really necessary for Aramis to bandage his ribs tightly that it was almost impossible to breathe properly? Reluctantly, D'Artagnan allowed himself a few minutes to calm his erratic heartbeat and to stop from being sick, before moving his legs and place his bare feet on the wooden floor.

 

Another peek, however, confirmed that for the moment his stealth was rewarded. Porthos was still asleep, none the wiser, so far everything was going smoothly. Eyeing viciously his boots, placed neatly beside the bed – wearing them without someone’s help was inconceivable - then, the youngster decided not to even try. Oh well, he could start with some fresh air, and maybe once he stood he would feel better.

 

The trick, now, was to avoid staggering, or worse, stumbling and bumping into something in the space that separated him from the door. But he could do it, _right?_

 

_If only his head would give him some rest..._

Breathing was still like swallowing red-hot blades, and his wounds didn’t stop throbbing for one damn second.

_Darn._

 

It was frustrating that his body apparently decided to defect him. But time was thinning out, Athos and Aramis could arrive at any moment and ruin his plans, so D’Artagnan resolved to move anyway. Frowning against the pain he planted both hands on the mattress, and then he stood, stiffening to fight gravity, and especially to overcome yet another flash of agony long enough to recover lucidity, and ensure that he wasn’t going to collapse anytime soon.

His legs were shaking by now, a lot, and so his hands. His stitches throbbed too, and he knew that Aramis was going to kill him if he tore them off. But his brothers - _hopefully one day soon his affection would be fully reciprocated, giving him the right to call them that_ \- were really too protective, he was a man and he knew how to take care of himself, wasn’t he?

 

Determined, that thinking about his friends’ strength always made him feel stronger, D'Artagnan swallowed yet another groan, and wobbling worse than he did when he was drunk, shivering and sweating, he reached the door, leaning on the handle a little more heavily than he would have liked.

_Too heavily indeed…_

An ominous crack snatched fifteen years of his life.

D’Artagnan paled, and stilled, and cussed.

 

But nothing. Porthos was still asleep.

_Thank God._

Probably assisted by the bottle of wine resting empty on his bedside table, in hindsight...

 

Confident, and feeling a little lightheaded with that burst of adrenaline, then, the Gascon finally left the bloody room. The slap of fresh air that hit his face as soon as he set his bare feet outside, however, was a sufficient enough recompense for his efforts, and even out of breath, dizzy, and vaguely aware that after all he didn’t feel _so_ good, D'Artagnan made it to the railing, leaning against it with all his weight. By now the sun was already above the horizon, the sky a luxurious shade of pink and from the kitchens he could hear Serge cooking, the scent of freshly baked bread climbing all the way to the infirmary despite the strong smell of earth, dirt, and manure, mingling with the odour of medicinal herbs and alcohol that emanated from him.

 

Now he just had to get to Treville’s office.

And of course, there was that _little_ problem with his boots…

D'Artagnan wondered idly if the Captain would be offended by seeing him barefooted. But in the end, he didn’t really have the time to seriously consider the issue.

 

Before he could take a step toward the stairs a loud curse tore him from his thoughts, so suddenly that the youngster gasped, jerked and then gasped again, this time for the burst of pain that blinded him for a few long seconds. Long enough that, when he got his bearings again, someone had passed an arm around him, supporting him and preventing him from collapsing on the ground.

 

_Leather, gunpowder with a hint of musk and ... flowers._

 

D'Artagnan cursed again.

He would recognize that scent between a thousand.

 

“I see that Athos didn’t make himself clear enough, yesterday”.

 

_Aramis._

 

“I feel better” D'Artagnan protested, his voice hoarse and far weaker than he would have liked while trying to look stern even if he was leaning against the Musketeer, who was holding, by now, most of his weight.

 

“Of course” the marksman sighed, rolling his eyes. “Come on, you need to rest, and if you ripped those stitches I will be very unhappy”.

“I have to report to the Captain” D'Artagnan tried to object weakly, unable to resist when, mindless of his complaints, the Musketeer began to slowly steer him back to the room he had just escaped from, his hands infinitely thoughtful despite the obvious exasperation in his voice

 

“You are not able to stand, D'Artagnan, I'm sure the Captain won’t resent you if you report to him later”.

“But ...”

 

“Oi!”

 

_Great, Porthos too, now._

“What the heck do you think are you doing out here?!”

 

_Damn._

_Damn, damn, dammit!_

 

“I have to report to the Captain” the Gascon tried again, now fully exasperated, even more so since he was unable to rebel against Aramis, that led him back to the bed with firm gentleness.

“You’d pass out before climbing the last steps, lad. Stop bein’ unreasonable, or I'll tie you to the bed, understood?” Porthos thundered, even if his voice was a little less menacing than usual after being awakened so suddenly.

“Could you please stop threatening me? I’m perfectly capable of -”

 

“D'Artagnan”.

 

If he could, the young man would have slapped both hands on his face. Because, judging by the look in his eyes, a minute before a _hell_ of a storm, Athos neither was particularly happy with him right now. Indeed, _not at all_. If there was something that unnerved D’Artagnan in this world, it was the way the man could pin someone with just a stare. It was like his own superpower, something halfway between a threat and a witchcraft, and D'Artagnan knew that probably only Treville was able to resist that look. As for him, the young Gascon could not prevent it: he pouted, his eyes morphing in two gems of chocolaty dejection.

“But I'm fine!”

Porthos’ loud snort, and Aramis - which already was examining his wounds - exasperated look was the only reply he got.

 

“Do you really want to force me to tie you up, D'Artagnan?” Athos asked unwaveringly, joining them with measured calmness, the loaded tray of food in his hands almost forgotten as he approached him with a full predatory gaze.

 

“No!” The Gascon protested immediately, inadvertently pulling back on the mattress. “I just wanted to get a breath of fresh air” he mumbled plaintively, his forehead throbbing now, and his body shivering with renewed force. It was abruptly too hot in that room, a strong smell of leather and dust that saturated almost everything, but before he could ask Porthos to open the window he felt Aramis’ hand cover his forehead, blocking his words in the bud.

“You have a fever, D'Artagnan, you must rest”.

 

“My patience has a limit” Athos stressed, as he saw his protégé lips part to form a retort. “ _Rest_. And do not try to move again”.

 

Porthos stifled a grin at his little brother’s rebellious look, standing up to remove the tray from Athos’ hands to place it on the table.

The Musketeer let him, and as their eyes met, black on blue, brother on brother, Porthos bit his lower lip. For a split second Athos’ lips twitched, a flash of unexpected amusement at their little brother’s antics.

 

While Aramis’ voice switched between advice and diagnosis, a warm baritone sound that Porthos had long since associated with his definition of home, along with Athos’ reassuring presence and, recently, D’Artagnan’s hot-headedness, then, the two of them took a seat at the small wooden circular table nestled under one of the windows, arranging plates and cups for breakfast. Once their comrade-in-arms had finished changing the bandages on the Gascon, then, the four of them sat down together, determined to put to a good use those two days off that Treville had given them. To guard D'Artagnan of course, _God help him if his stubbornness put his convalescence at risk_.

 

However, despite his protests, halfway through the meal D'Artagnan fell asleep, and Porthos’ grin was more affectionate than mocking when he noticed it. “The puppy is sleeping” he said, lowering his voice, his hand moving to ruffle lightly the boy's hair with obvious fondness.

“Finally” Athos grunted, resting his back against his chair, legs crossed at the ankles.

“However, as a patient you are not better than him” Aramis pointed out grinning, raising his wine-filled cup in a toast.

“Shut up Aramis” Athos replied, albeit without particular sentiment.

 

The Spaniard grinned widely but said nothing, content to just rest his head against the wall and enjoy the quiet of that Monday morning, relishing in the knowledge that his brothers were safe around him.

 

Porthos, still sitting on an old dark wooden chair his shirtsleeves, his ebony skin like silk in contrast with the whiteness of the linen, a solid arm thrown over the back, the other resting gently on their youngster’s shoulder. More than a man feared the Musketeer, frightened by his massive structure, by his more-often-than-not threatening stare, by the way he could intimidate simply by tilting his lips. Few, however, knew how _protective_ Porthos was. Especially towards his brothers. And even fewer were those who had had the privilege of seeing him pale with worry, or move his fingers as if they were feathers in the effort to provide comfort when he felt it was needed. Treville, and the three men sitting with him in that small room. Aramis always felt honored when his mind caught on that particular thought. To show courage, loyalty, determination, sometimes even fear, it was easy. Bare one's heart to make room for certain emotions, however, that was much more difficult. Love, for example. Love weakens and strengthens at the same time. Love bares the soul, makes a man vulnerable, love is a tight rope around the neck ready to choke to the last breath. Yet, one by one, all of them had bound that rope against their flesh, tightening the knot with their own hands. Giving up the shame, sometimes even their dignity, forgetting everything except the love for their brothers. Generally, when one of them was wounded. Porthos had that rope wrapped around his neck at that exact moment, Aramis could easily read those dark irises. He seemed calm, even relaxed, but his eyes kept moving to D'Artagnan’s face, and the light that illuminated them was fiercely protective, like a bear defending her cubs.

 

But Athos too, whether he liked it or not, was tied up tightly without any chance to free himself, Aramis reflected, turning his head slightly to his left, where his Lieutenant, his brother, sat. Athos was doomed from the very nature of his soul. He loved deeply, so viscerally and without reservation that his wife’s treason had almost led him to death. When they met, the two of them, the Spaniard was already in the regiment, while Athos had to still gain his commission. A man destroyed by his demons, chained hand and foot by remorse, resentment, by regrets. A suffering shadow who wandered the Earth in search of a dignified death that would allow him to atone for his sins. Or at least, that was _his_ opinion. Aramis and Porthos fought for a long time, even years, to penetrate the darkness that enveloped him, armed only with the dedication and determination worthy of a soldier. But in the end, their reward was more than they expected. Because Athos’ soul was noble, proud, generous to the fault, and deeply unable to accept injustice. Devoted to the cause. But above all, he was a man who knew how to love, whether he liked it or not. Whether he extended that privilege, to be loved by him, to few or to many. Overcome at least some of his barriers meant having his affection forever.

 

Aramis smiled again to see his winter irises darting to D'Artagnan too. Their young Gascon also proved to have the ability to overstep the fortress in which Athos had imprisoned himself, much faster than them too, in hindsight. But that reward, the one that Porthos and Aramis treasured jealously and with more care than their own lives ... that reward D'Artagnan had yet to discover it. Oh, he had already earned Athos’ affection. As well as theirs, in fact, Aramis thought amused. But he didn’t know them deeply enough yet to allow himself to observe them from the outside, to recognize with certainty the affection they felt for him for what he was. _Love_. A fraternal bond deeper than blood. Because a brother by blood, you can hate him. A brother by choice… well, you choose him. And you’ll protect him to the death. But Aramis knew that, sooner or later, D’Artagnan would realize that when Porthos called him ‘little brother’ he didn’t do it to tease him, because he was younger than them. No. Porthos didn’t call brother _anybody_. Not without a reason. No, Porthos called brothers only _his own_ brothers. D'Artagnan included.

 

Sooner or later their Gascon would also realize that Aramis’ insistence on inspecting those bandages wrapped around his chest as often as possible was not simple kindness. The thoughtfulness of a soldier with the heart of a medic. It was devotion. Simple and pure. Tend to his brothers’ injuries with utmost care, for the Spaniard, was a way to show them his love. Aramis often called them 'my friends', but it was just a saying for him, not because the bond between them was a mere friendship. It was much deeper than that. He didn’t rest his forehead on a friend’s shoulder when his nightmares plagued him, he hated to reveal his weakness. He didn’t curl close to some friend’s body during those nights spent lost under a pitch-black sky, forced to camp in the thick of a forest who knows how many miles far away from Paris, eyes scanning the darkness looking for an unknown threat. And when he smiled his good morning, just after the sun rose, aching for more sleep but at the same time eager to start the new day, it wasn’t for a friend, he didn’t wrap his arm around a friend after a night out, legs trembling of wine and fatigue.

 

Aramis was a tactile person, it was through contact that he expressed his devotion. It was the most natural way for him to show them his love.

 

Not like Porthos, that concealed his fondness with a joke, a brilliant smile even when the future seemed bleak. Not like Athos, who wore his emotions written in his winter blue eyes, although you had to squint, and know the language to decipher them. Like the ocean for a sailor, never identical to itself, ready to change with the speed of a thunder in the sky, his eyes were proud, strong, and terribly entrancing. Athos loved with his gaze, his few words and ever fewer gestures.

 

Also, D'Artagnan had not yet realized, not really, how rare it was for Athos to offer his hand to hold someone. Of course he was always ready, his brother, to help those in need. But it was the need, exactly, to dictate his actions, generally. If he could, he would gladly avoid being touched in the process. Yet, more than once Aramis had seen him circle their Gascon’s waist with his arm after Porthos had made him drink too much. More than once he had seen Athos grab D’Artagnan’s chin with his fingers to read those loyal, and sometimes too proud, irises in search for the truth. To push aside a lock of black hair from a sweaty forehead, and then follow their youngster with his eyes make sure he wouldn’t fall, move his chair a little closer, just to be certain that those words, “Athos I'm fine, really”, corresponded to the truth.

 

Aramis shook his head, amused. If he and Porthos hadn’t already adopted the Gascon in their little but tight-knit family, if he hadn’t already won a place among them, they would have been jealous of the ease with which D’Artagnan had been able to defeat Athos’ defenses. It took longer to them, really. It was no easy fight. But since that young hot head was indeed their little brother, all that the Spaniard felt while watching his brothers interact with each other was a wonderful sense of belonging. Home. _Family_. A family by choice, of course, tumultuous and rowdy. But a family nonetheless. A family for which Aramis was ready to kill, and that he would protect with his life.

 

“What are you thinking, mh?” Porthos asked, awakening the Spaniard from his thoughts. By now he could hear his fellow Musketeers training in the courtyard, the tinkling of blades clashing against blades resounding faintly into the room by the two open windows, so probably a bit of time had passed since breakfast.

“Nothing in particular” Aramis replied, holding back a grin when he realized that, while distracted, he had raised from his chair and actually was already halfway between the table and D'Artagnan’s bed. _Family, indeed._

 

“Mphf - replied Porthos, giving him a warm knowing smile – you were grinnin’ a bit too much for someone who wasn’t thinking anything in particular”.

“ _Shut up_ ” Aramis smirked lightly, sitting by D’Artagnan, his hand moving to the youngster’s forehead.

“I'm going to talk to the Captain" Athos announced, rising from his chair where he too had left his mind free to roam, in his voice a note of gentle resignation at his brothers’ natural bickering. “Keep him in bed”.

“He’s unconscious” Porthos pointed out, amusedly.

“Nevertheless” Athos unwaveringly replied, before leaving the small room with a firm stride, the sun lightening his slightly messy curls to a warm chestnut-gold.

Porthos watched him leave, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter at their Lieutenant gruff affection.

“I dont’t think we’ll have to work hard to keep D'Artagnan at rest, at least not for now, anyway” Aramis nodded, his lips twitching too.

“Mphf, he’ll be up an’ around complainin’ soon enough”.

 

To be more precise, at lunchtime, when Captain Treville’s visit awakened D'Artagnan from sleep. His need to report on his mission, however, postponed the inevitable for a good hour, at least until, alone again with his Musketeers, the Gascon decided to resume his petition.

 

“I feel better now”.

 

Athos stared at him for a long moment, a flash of pure exasperation defeating the impassivity of his pale blue eyes. He almost looked ready to bang his head against the wall, so obviously exasperated he was, that Aramis, hadn’t been more or less equally aggravated, he would have laughed at the expression painted on his face.

“Can we gag ‘im?”

“Porthos!” The young man protested loudly, widening his shiny with fever deep brown eyes in outrage.

“Enough” Athos sighed, wondering why, among all the men of the regiment, he had to surround himself with children

“I’m serious, Athos” Porthos offered with a grin, a flash of white against his dark skin gilded by the midday sun that freely poured through the windows in long milky white rays, eyeing wryly the Gascon.

“Not a bad idea” Aramis remarked, lips tilted and hands intent on changing the bandages that protected D'Artagnan’s side.

“Traitor!” the young Gascon cried, pouting adorably even if he was trying to look intimidating and angry.

“Aramis has already told you that you cannot move” Porthos replied, crossing his arms as to drive his point home.

“Aramis exaggerates” D'Artagnan replied, narrowing his eyes.

“Aramis is right, as always” the Spaniard pointed out, arching an elegant eyebrow.

“Aramis should be on my side!”

“And _why_ , pray tell?” the sharpshooter inquired, obviously bewildered.

“Because you owe me a favor” D'Artagnan readily replied.

“Since when?” the Spaniard asked, frowning gracefully, his expert hands tying the last strips of clean bandages.

“Since I saved you from that Duchess’ husband, and you told me 'D'Artagnan I owe you a favor” was the youngster’s petulant retort.

“And when was that?” Porthos asked puzzled.

“Some time ago” Aramis muttered. He didn’t wish to share that particular, and undignified, incident. Porthos would make fun of him forever, if he’d know. And even Athos, with his infuriating ability to tease with a simple but effective look. _Unnerving_ , really.

 

Fortunately, it was D'Artagnan he stumbled into last month, while he was running in the streets of Paris in his braies, barefooted and unarmed, his arms full of clothes and weapons, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Duke’s hounds. The man had returned home earlier than expected, only to find him in his bedroom with his wife.

 

And Aramis had to stifle a smile at the memory. Of course, it was an unpleasant incident at best, since he had to hide like an almost naked coward to avoid those darn dogs, but at the same time, that night he had felt a little more fond of his younger brother. When, instead of burst out laughing at his déshabillé, he just grabbed him by the arm to hide him inside some empty courtyard, the smells of the city and clean sheets hung out to dry, a mixture of soap and lavender, enough to distract the dogs.

 

Of course, once they were safe D'Artagnan had looked at him incredulously, and yes, a flash of fun blazed in his soulful dark eyes…. but to Aramis’ surprise, that was all. Instead of teasing him, his little brother’s hands had found his still naked arms to grip them gently, and looking into his eyes he told him: “Please be more careful the next time. I may not be here to help”.

 

Therefore, he could not really argue with D'Artagnan when he told him he owed him a favor. It was true, after all.

Only, his gratitude couldn't matter in this case. Certainly he wasn't to allow his brother to move when the boy didn't have the strength to stand longer than a minute…

 

“Be as it may, D'Artagnan. As long as your wounds are not healed, you will not move from this room”.

_Athos probably agrees_ , Aramis mused before grinning again. If possible, their Gascon pouted even more at Athos’ remark. But then the sharpshooter had to roll his eyes: judging by the rebellious look that briefly flashed in D’Artagnan’s irises, just a glimpse he caught because he was looking for it, that conversation wasn't’ over _yet_.

 

Exactly what D'Artagnan was thinking, indeed. _They couldn’t seriously consider to hold him prisoner in his own room, dammit! Why they still treated him as a child?_

 

And yet, for the next two days they guarded him closely. D'Artagnan didn’t get to spend even one night alone, for his three Musketeers made sure that someone would stay with him until the next morning, content to sleep in a small stack of sheets lying in a corner of the room. In any other situation, the Gascon would have welcomed that closeness, with joy, actually. Since his father’s death, that left him alone in the world, he had wanted nothing more than to find someone who accepted him, who cared for him, and to care for. And there was nothing he preferred to his friends’ company, men who he had come to admire ad appreciate, to love and respect, so much he couldn’t refrain himself to hope that one day they would call him “little brother” because they loved him as such. It was their decision to stand guard as if he could accidentally injury himself at any moment that bothered him.

 

So strong it was the need to prove himself worthy of being part of this close-knit group, that the idea of being considered a child to protect, and not a comrade to rely on, it was driving him crazy.

It prevented him from observing the situation with the right perspective.

 

But, well… soon enough he’d learn than Aramis was indeed right.

The Musketeers would make sure of that.

 

His eye-opening revelation arrived just four days after his daring return to the garrison. Summoned by the Captain for a reason he didn’t know, for the first time the Musketeers had to leave him on his own. D'Artagnan did his best to endure in silence Aramis’ fussing, Porthos’ admonitions and Athos’ stare, but all good intentions flew out the window as soon as, half an hour later, he saw them mount their rides and cross the arch that led directly to the city.

 

Not thirty minutes later, and D'Artagnan was already clinging to the wall in an ill-attempt to stand up. Forty-five minutes after they left, and he was trudging slowly to the door, and just an hour later, he was clinging with trembling hands to the railing overlooking the courtyard, full of training Musketeers.

 

_Ah, freedom._

 

Sweat clung his hair to his forehead, and he felt chills, spasms of pain flash through his chest at regular intervals, but the heat of the sunlight on his feverish skin was the sweetest of rewards. After all, he mused proudly, he couldn’t be that weak if he was able to move on his own, right?

 

The air smelled of earth, mud, and manure, but last night rain had poured hard and somehow it smelled of clean too. It was the scent of home, for D'Artagnan, so he leaned with his elbows on the solid wood railing to enjoy it, stubbornly ignoring his trembling legs, or how lightheaded he suddenly felt.

 

He spent only a few days in forced bedrest, true, but he was twenty, it was almost a lifetime for him. Accustomed to life at his father's farm, where his days started before dawn and his nights tasted of exhaustion and eagerness to do more, to be more, than a farmer, and then to his training as a an aspirant Musketeer, still raising at sunrise and working on his skill far later than dusk, riding for the King and for France shoulder to shoulder with the finest, bravest soldiers of the Country, it was an agony to be locked up within four walls.

 

_Well, I could start by going down to the stables and see if there’s some work to do. Maybe Buttercup needs to be groomed, what harm there’s in a simple task like that?_

 

And promptly answered his own question. _None, of course. It’s just a few steps away, and I'll be back in my bed before the others return._

 

So, with renewed energy the Gascon began the slow and painful descent into the yard, stopping to catch his breath from time to time, and to smile to the Musketeers that waved their hands at him in salute as they saw him. By now a pleasant breeze was ruffling his hair and although his walk of just two flights of stairs it was taking forever, because of Aramis and the whole damn bandage tightly wrapped around him, compared to the boring darkness of the room that the Captain had assigned him for his convalescence it was a nice change of scenery.

 

“Are you sure you should be already up, lad?”. Lifting his head D’Artagnan noticed, just a few steps below him, Aubin, one of the most experienced Musketeers of the garrison. His eyebrow, as dark as his long black hair, was arched. He was sweaty, he had just finished a training session with Francoise, another King’s Guard, but the sight of the Gascon stopped him in the middle of the stairs, that pale he was. Almost like a _rag_.

 

“I'm fine, thanks", D'Artagnan gasped, squaring his shoulders hunched in fatigue and pain as much as possible to look proud and distinguished. “I'm just enjoying the fresh air”.

Aubin grinned, for D'Artagnan wasn’t the first Musketeer that tried to escape his bedrest, but as soon as his smile took shape on his lips it disappeared. “Hey, you’re bleeding lad!”.

 

If his hands weren’t necessary to steady himself, D'Artagnan would have slapped them both in his face when, following Aubin’s frown, he saw a red stain coloring his shirt. Aramis would _kill_ him, he just knew that. Obviously, the stitches were torn, _damn_... Instead, he cursed between his teeth, and praying that the Musketeers would be back at the garrison as late as possible he clung to the banister, to retreat to his room before anyone else could find out.

 

Of course, he should have known that he couldn’t be that lucky, considered what happened just a couple’ days before..

He recognized the sound of the hooves as soon as they crossed the entrance arch of the garrison, and even if he was facing the opposite direction he could almost see them, Athos, Porthos and Aramis. Probably they spotted him right away, their eyes sharpening, narrowing, and their lips tightening in a thin line of disappointment.

 

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit!_

 

They joined him in a moment.

The youngster didn’t even had the time consider the idea of lying to justify his position that someone grabbed him to keep him upright, while someone else moved his arm, hawk-sharp eyes spotting the patch of blood on his shirt immediately.

“You tore the stitches”.

 

_Darn._

 

And God, Aramis’ voice was like a _knife_ …

 

“Upstairs, Aramis. We'll talk later”.

 

Even Porthos wasn’t happy with D'Artagnan little stunt, but the Musketeer couldn’t suppress the surge of compassion he felt for his little brother as he saw the hurricane that had taken up residence in Athos’ eyes. _Man, he’s scary_ , Porthos thought, looking at the older of them with a hint of awe. Right behind them, a couple of steps back, their Lieutenant face was so still it could have been a mask, his lips were so thin they were almost white, his shoulders rigid and his knuckles pale. He was regarding them so impassively, so sternly, that even Porthos had to fight a shudder. D'Artagnan, in fact, shuddered for sure, Porthos felt him all right, since at the moment his arms were the only thing that prevented the Gascon from crashing to the ground. Even Aramis noticed, because a hint of fond amusement flashed in his eyes too, and his voice was a little less hard when the marksman urged him to move, his hands at the wounded side of D’Artagnan.

 

But even with the support of two Musketeers, the journey back to D’Artagnan’s room wasn’t an easy one. It took them good twenty minutes to climb back the few steps the youngster had descended. Of course, D’Artagnan would have rather spent on those stairs a whole _year_ if that meant to avoid Athos’ wrath...

 

Because the Lieutenant was the last one to enter the bedroom, and when he closed the door behind him and turned to face the youngster... it was as if the temperature in the room dropped by 10 degrees.

 

Without a word, Athos leaned with his shoulder to the wall, and with an apparent calm he stared at Porthos and Aramis helping D'Artagnan to his bed, the first one promptly wiping his sweaty brow with a damp cloth, the second immediately at work on his reopened wound. It was only later, when clean bandages were fastened and Aramis’ herbal concoction swallowed, that the leader of Les Inseparables took a few steps into the room, moving away from the wall to consider D'Artagnan with a long stare.

 

D’Artagnan squirmed a little under the heavy silence, overwhelmed by those eyes that were piercing him, and Athos noticed it. But when he spoke, his voice was still commanding.

 

“Your hands” the Lieutenant ordered, ice-cold irises pinning down his protégé.

 

Who blinked uncomprehendingly.

“… What?” D’Artagnan asked, still dazed by his disastrous half - journey to the stables.

“Your hands” Athos repeated sternly, moving forward until his boots almost connected with D’Artagnan bare toes, Aramis and Porthos shifting to stand at his side and observe the scene without a single word.

 

D'Artagnan swallowed eyeing them lined up there to face him. And tensed.

 

“Why” he asked uncertainly, trying to sound sure of himself rather than on the verge of collapsing.

“That was an order, D’Artagnan”. Athos stressed, his eyes unflinching, fastened to their youngster’s face. That’s why he didn’t miss the flash of understanding that glimmered in his dark orbs as soon as the Gascon understood what _exactly_ Athos meant to do to him. And his eyes widened, stunned.

“Athos…” he tried weakly, praying that it was a joke.

“Do you intend to disregard a direct order?” The Musketeer asked impassively, staring at the shivering and feverish twenty years old Gascon hunched on his bed with his sweat dump silky black hair glued to his face and sheet-white skin, dark smudges under his reddened stormy-brown eyes and teeth biting nervously his lower lip.

 

D'Artagnan swallowed, a rebellious look replacing the exhaustion that had clouded his face until that moment. For a second, Porthos believed that yes, he would. He would disobey. D'Artagnan was a hothead, and a good part of his training consisted of teaching him to fight with his brain, and not with his heart.

 

Then, however, he capitulated.

Because he could be impulsive, and reckless, and fierce, D'Artagnan. But he was also a Musketeer by heart, and he would never ignore a direct order from a commanding officer. Not from Athos, above all.

 

In fact, although very reluctant, Aramis and Porthos saw him stick out his trembling hands with the barest hint of defeat in his eyes, his jaw tightening when, in response, Athos produced a length of rope from his leather belt.

“You were warned” the Lieutenant said simply, laying a hand on their little brother’s shoulder and then pushing, firm but not unkind, until his head leaned against the pillow. Only then he sat down beside him, and without any hesitation grabbed his wrists bringing them high above his head, to tie them to the wooden headboard of the bed.

 

D'Artagnan didn’t fight. He wouldn’t fight Athos, and regardless, even if he would, he couldn’t. He knew that, even if he tried, Athos would pin him to the bed by force, and he wasn’t strong enough, in his conditions, to stop him. But most important, he couldn’t disobey a direct order. Even if it meant, for him, to end up tied up. He’d never _dare_ , fearful that his friends would judge him incapable to follow their commands.

 

And yet, his eyes were so desperately disheartened that Aramis and Porthos had to shift their focus elsewhere to suppress a smile. A bit of discipline wouldn’t hurt the young Gascon, Athos was right, albeit the hypocrisy of that punishment wasn’t lost on Porthos. None of them was better than D'Artagnan as a patient. Why, Athos too had found himself in their little brother’s place a few times, courtesy of Aramis, the huge Musketeer grinned, watching his older brother bind their young one’s hands, tightly enough to prevent him from escaping, but not too much that the rope would injure his wrists, bandaged and on the mend.

 

“Are you angry?”.

For all his stubbornness, that question sounded so insecure that it clearly caught Athos unprepared, so much that his hands, intent on tightening the last knots, stopped for a moment, that his eyes darted to the face of the young man who had murmured those words, his voice something between despair, annoyance and a faint trace of guilt. And he had to stifle a groan, the Lieutenant, cursing his own recklessness. Letting himself being caught unprepared by D'Artagnan puppy look of pleading was an amateur’s mistake. He was a soldier, he should have known better, he cursed vaguely amused. However, it was already too late to do something about that. So, if his face was still stone-like impassive, his hands were a little less resolute as they bound the last knots that secured the rope to the bed.

 

And then he sighed, crossing his arms before meeting again the boy's eyes.

 

“You behaved as a reckless infant” Athos finally said, his voice gruff even if his gaze was already warmer. To see his protégé stand up almost doubled over in pain, alone, in the middle of those stairs, where he could easily fall and get hurt worse than he already was, blood staining his shirt ... well. Saying that he was shaken would be an _understatement_.

“I felt better” the Gascon muttered. But it was a weak try, for he finally recognized the emotion that had filled his friends’ eyes as soon as they spotted him escaping his room: concern, pure and simple. And he couldn’t help the wave of guilt that was building up in his stomach by every passing second.

“It was your stubbornness to make you think that, D'Artagnan” Aramis corrected him fondly, his voice much calmer now.

“You ‘ere going to pass out, lad, and the wound reopened” Porthos too reminded him, who had also felt much older when, riding in, his eyes caught the boy clinging to the railing so unsteadily.

“I wasn’t going to-”

“Faint?” Athos interrupted him, arching an eyebrow completely unimpressed.

D'Artagnan sighed, lowering his gaze, his cheeks coloring in shame. “I'm not a child, I can take care of myself” he breathed, his voice hoarse, and not just because of pain.

 

Aramis placed his hand on Athos’ shoulder at that, to stop the man's remark, figuring that D'Artagnan apparently needed a hand to _fully_ understand the situation. “No one believes you are a child, my friend. You've proved yourself”, he pointed out kindly, smiling when his little brother looked at him with wide glimmering eyes. “And this isn’t the reason why you now have those ropes at your wrists”.

The look on D'Artagnan’s face at Aramis’ words made even Athos’ lips twitch to suppress a smile.

“Really?” He asked, a crumb of hope in his voice. _Maybe ... maybe he really had convinced them? Was it possible that his efforts were rewarded?_

 

“Really”, Athos confirmed, losing his battle with his emotions, all traces of anger gone from his voice now soft, silky, ruffled only by a bit of affectionate exasperation. “D’Artagnan, we take care of each other”.

“Of ... each other?” the Gascon repeated, trying not to hope too much to avoid disappointment later.

“You're one of us now”, Porthos clarified to dispel any doubt, a gentle smile curling his lips and strong arms folded across his chest, “and we don’t worry about you just because you are a Musketeer, or you’ll soon be, anyway”, he corrected himself, since their young one didn’t have his own pauldron yet, but it was a matter of time. “We do it because you are our little brother”.

“And for ‘our’, Porthos means _our’_ ” Aramis pointed out, to avoid any misunderstanding, his head tilting to indicate his two comrades in arms.

 

“Oh”. D'Artagnan murmured after a long pause, his eyes suddenly watery, working frantically to hold back tears. He had never felt like this before in his young life. So accepted, so at home, so....

 

He had loved his father, he still loved him, with all his heart, as much as he missed the farm, his life in Gascony, the clean smell of fresh grass and tall trees swirling with the wind in the morning, sun reflecting on his sweat damped skin, muscles working restlessly all day long ... he loved his mother, too, although her memory wasn’t more than a faded portrait that smelled vaguely of honey, sun and apples. But ... it was _different_. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had chosen him, and it was that choice they made consciously - him, D'Artagnan, not anyone else - to make that awareness taste differently. Because he was young, D'Artagnan, he didn’t even have any beard, but he knew that that kind of privilege was rare. So rare, in fact, that you could live a whole life without even know something like that existed. Without ever having the _chance_ to meet people for whom you’d die, that you’d defend with your life. He was jus twenty years old, and three of the best men he had ever known had chosen him, welcomed him, saved him from the pain and the shadow of death that surrounded him like demons to make him one of them.

 

How to reciprocate such an honor?

 

And what to say to express what he now felt writhing in his chest, down to his stomach, so _hard_ that he almost couldn’t breathe?

 

Love, gratitude, wonder, awe ... it was like taking a long, hearty sip of the very best warm wine on a freezing cold winter night, and feeling it pouring under his skin, through his veins, down to his bones, soaking the very substance of which it was made his soul. And there were no words to express the visceral gratitude he felt like thrill running through his bare flash.

 

To his surprise, however, D'Artagnan found out that he didn’t need to.

 

As he raised his eyes again he saw it, that light, that warmth, that thrill he felt shine in his own heart. It was in Aramis’ gentle eyes, in Porthos’ protective ones, in Athos’ winter stare, even. He just had to squint a little to see past those walls that usually distanced Athos from the rest of the world. But it was there, loud and clear.

They _understood_.

 

Because that bond run so deep… they all felt it. A fraternal bond. He just was the last one of them to acknowledge it.

 

So D’Artagnan just smiled, unsurprised when three equally warm smiles appeared on his Musketeers’, his brothers’ faces in response to his own.

 

And so captured he felt by that eye-opening revelation that he almost forgot how exhausted and in pain he felt. He just instinctively moved to sit up. He didn’t even know why… maybe to share with them a pat on the back? Or a hug? A gesture, just to make sure that it wasn’t just a dream conjured by his imagination, by his desire to be included among Les Inseparables.

 

Of course, the rope that Athos had wrapped securely at his wrists brought him back to reality.

As soon as he moved to stand he fell back on his pillow, a burst of blinding pain in his side abruptly cutting off his breath, breaking the moment.

“Damn” he gritted out, swallowing to stifle a groan while unconsciously tugging at his bindings to move his hands to his wound.

“Don’t move” Aramis admonished him kindly, resting a hand on his left arm. Something totally unnecessary, in hindsight, since he couldn’t… the ropes didn’t even loosened a little, despite his attempts. He was _helpless_.

 

So D'Artagnan didn’t acknowledge him, resolving to save his breath for what he wanted to say instead. “I'm sorry”, he admitted, gasping a little, as soon as he was able to speak again, watching them one by one so that they understood that he was sincere. “I didn’t want to worry you”.

 

The trio exchanged a knowing glance, pleased that finally their brother understood their message.

“I know” Athos said conceded, relaxing fractionally his shoulders, Aramis and Porthos sharing a smile standing by the bed.

“Let’s make this a lesson, mh? No more trips outside until I say so, okay?” The Spaniard stressed pointedly while resting his arm on Porthos’ shoulder, regarding their brother with undeniable fondness.

“Understood” D’Artagnan nodded, with only a small bit of reluctance, earning a nod from Porthos. Who laughed softly, staring amused at his brothers. “However, for the sake of honesty, none of us is especially good when it comes to bedrest”.

“Shut up Porthos” Athos rebuked him half-heartedly.

“That means that you’ll untie me now?” D'Artagnan inquired hopefully, looking at Athos, then at Aramis, and then at Porthos with impatience shining in his deep brown - totally puppy - eyes.

 

“No”.

“Of course not”.

_“Absolutely not”._


	9. Immovable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew that he was losing his mind. Quickly, in fact. He knew he was going to break maybe beyond repair. He felt it. He was sure about it. He could already feel the bitter taste of dread fill his stomach, climb his chest, choke his throat. It was like Savoy all over again, but at the same time, it was completely different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, as I promised here I’m, back with the next chapter of this collection, I for Immovable. I’d like to give a little warning here: I’m no Jane Austen, or Dumas, for that matter, but still this chapter is a little… hard to read. I wrote it in one go, and when it was over I felt a lump in my throat, so hold tight. It’s long too, so ready your cup of coffee, my friends, you’re in for – I hope - a nice ride. 
> 
> Furthermore, I won’t ever get tired to say this: thank you so much for your reviews, bookmarks or kudos, you are awesome, and probably without you – at some point – I would have stopped updating, thinking that, after all, my work wasn’t good enough to share. I love you!
> 
> Sigmund: thank you so much my friend, and I’m so happy you enjoyed D’Artagnan’s hot-headedness, even if – I’ll tell you – Athos is glaring at you :D Thanks! Let me know about this one, ok?
> 
> DebbieF: Thank you! You’re so sweet I can’t even tell you how much it means to me! Yeah, I’m better, and I’ve started writing again, thank God, I really missed it! It was unsettling to face a blank page for hours without being able to type a single word. Ugh! Hahah I’m glad you appreciated the picture, I struggled to translate it in English, so I’m proud that someone as talented as you liked it! Thanks!!!
> 
> Buckeye01: Thank you so much, I felt a lump in my throat as I saw your words, I don’t even know how to express how glad I am for your support! But my gratitude is heartfelt, and I won’t forgive your kindness. Yeah, everything is better now, so I’m hopeful, and meanwhile, I’m back! I’m so happy to be able to share this work with people like you, so generous and so ready to be there at need. We have something in common as we both love this fandom, I love the time spent replying to your comments, but apart from that, I just know you must be awesome here and in the outside world! Thank you, really. 
> 
>  
> 
> Ok, now I give the floor to The Musketeers, so, see you soon with the next chapter! Let me know if you liked this one, I poured in it a little bit of my heart, too.

 

 

 

 

 _“Then Walter died as he lived, he told his mate.  
_ _A hero, a soldier, and a survivor who chose to protect what was precious to him.  
_ _I don't think, if you could ask him, that he would have any regrets”._  
(P. Briggs)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Tell me something I don’t know about you”.

If he could, Aramis would gladly _scream_. And keep screaming until his throat would bleed, filling his mouth with iron and rust, forcing his vocal cords to beg for him to stop and just be quiet. He would thrust his hands in his beloved curls and pull, hard, with all his might, desperately, even if it meant to rip his them neatly from his head in the process. He would run, fast, far away, just to get rid of the… gut-filling mind-blowing rage that it was consuming him right now.

He knew that he was losing his mind. Quickly, in fact. He knew he was going to break maybe beyond repair. He _felt_ it. He was sure about it. He could already feel the bitter taste of dread fill his stomach, climb his chest, choke his throat. It was like Savoy all over again, but at the same time, it was completely different. Oh, of course he had tried to pray, to breathe, to let his mind wander away in search of somewhere safe, and sunny, where he could rest with his back flat on a grass coated hill with his little brother close enough to reach for him with his hand. But it didn’t work.

Three days later, he had completely _lost_ his usually collected demeanor. His force of will. His determination. He felt like a leaf, separated from his tree and left to dry out in the heat of the sun. He was drained, hollow, filled only with sorrow, pain, and dejection.

Three days later, all he could do, all he was able to do, _dammit_ , was to stare with fading soulful brown eyes to the empty walls that surrounded him, chained like an animal, begging shamelessly with his brother, his young little brother, to stop, _dear God_. For he couldn’t stand it anymore. His screams of agony, his stubbornness to keep resisting even if he was bruised and battered beyond belief, his cursed will to protect him with his own flesh and blood, with his own life. But D’Artagnan wouldn’t listen to his pleas, as heartfelt as they were. He just wouldn’t. And Aramis… he felt like crying. For the first time since his recovery from the whole Savoy ordeal, he felt the heart-wrecking need curl somewhere dark and cry his eyes out to make it _stop_.

Three days.  
How long his brother could resist?  
How long before his injuries become infected, leading him to a consuming fever and then, to death?  
How long before he lost consciousness for good?  
How long before he would finally stop fighting?

Aramis didn’t know. And he couldn’t even find in his heart the strength to hope for someone to rescue them. Their brothers, maybe. _If they are alive._

He was tired. So darn exhausted that his head was like an air filled throbbing balloon, useless and painful. He was damp with water and sweat, shivering with cold and maybe a fever, blue lips and bloody red puffy eyes, shredded wrists, aching everywhere because of the position they kept him for the most part of the day. He couldn’t do anything, _not a darn, damned thing_. But he wouldn’t stop begging.

“D’Artagnan please. Please listen to me! You must-”  
“I won’t”.  
“D’Artagnan please, don’t… I- can’t let you-”  
“Aramis. _Stop_. Now tell me something I don’t know about you. Porthos once told me you were going to be a priest” was their young Gascon reply, albeit almost too faint for his hears to single out his words.

And Aramis stifled again his urge to just yell, the lad's stubbornness be damned. And the stifling need to shake his brother hard with his bare hands, enough to inculcate in him some common sense. He couldn’t, anyway, since he was chained to that _darn_ , bloody wall…

He didn’t even feel anymore the relief that for a minute burst through his body as soon as he realized that they were indeed alive, and together.  
That was three days ago, so many hours away it felt like a _lifetime_.

 

They were tracking down Sebastien Guibeaux, a thief and a murderer that was terrorizing a small but rich area on the northern side of France. After many investigations they found out that he and his gang, twenty guns, mostly mercenaries, were hiding in Guinon, a small farmers village two hours ride from Brest, so, after planning the best offensive strategy they could with the information in their possess, they had decided to scout the area, and then circle the cottage the man used as a hideaway in order to find the best way to capture him without getting killed in the process.

But something went wrong, so _terribly_ wrong.

They were betrayed by one of those villagers they were protecting, something that even the best planning couldn’t prevent, who, in exchange for a sum of money, told the gang that four of the King’s Musketeers were going to jump on them very soon, making Guibeaux extra careful. How much careful, they found out the following night. When he and D’Artagnan, while watching the place on the eastern side of the property, were caught by some unknown riders coming at their back. They fought back, of course. But the night was dark, they were outnumbered, and when a shot pierced through his arm, D’Artagnan made a fatal mistake. He turned toward Aramis to shout his name in horror, just a second, just a heartbeat. Enough to get caught by surprise by some bandit that tackled him, smashing his head to the ground, knocking him out.

Aramis was the next one.

He could remember the sound of gunfires that rang out around him, faint enough to tell him that his brothers were fighting for their lives too, and the strong smell of fresh grass under his knees, merging with his own blood, coating his right hand as he pressed it to his left arm in order to stop the bleeding. Then something hit him too, and darkness engulfed his senses.

His true nightmare, however, had _yet_ to begin.

He came to smelling dirt and mud, face pressed against cold earth smudging his cheek and tickling his nostrils. The pain hit him immediately and _hard_ , his arm was like on fire and he was sure his head was going to explode… but just like that he remembered what happened to his little brother, and his tired eyes shot open, to look for him. He didn’t have to search hard. D’Artagnan was just beside him, still unconscious, blood staining his chin from a deep gash on his forehead, that was dripping slowly but steadily, in a thin rivulet that went down to their Gascon's cheek, swollen and bruised by the hit that had knocked him out. His closed eyes too were somewhat blackened, dark smudges encircling them as if someone had punched his face hard enough to leave a mark.

Also, he was tied up, and as soon as Aramis took notice of that, moving to unbind him, he found out that he was restrained too. His hands were securely wrapped in ropes behind his back, and as he tried to tug them free, wincing at the friction between the raw material and his skin, he realized that they were fastened to his ankles, in a tight hogtie. He cursed quietly under his breath at that, and a cursory glance told him that, judging by his position, D’Artagnan was probably bound in the same fashion too.

So he tried to call him, to wake him up, to beg him to come around, “come on D’Artagnan open your eyes, look at me”, while struggling with all his strength to free himself, stopping only when, after long minutes of shallow breathing and increasingly desperate murmuring of his brother’s name, dark brown eyes slowly opened, finally revealing soulful pain filled chocolate orbs, that - _thank God_ \- immediately focused on him.

 

But they had just a few seconds to ask each other about their conditions.

The bastard, _Guibeaux_ , joined them a couple of minutes later, grinning viciously at the sight: a King’s Musketeers as his prisoner. His day was getting better by the minute.

Of course, Aramis had tried to keep the man’s attention on himself, Hell would freeze before he’d let that creep hurt his brother. But with no avail. Just as two goons were going to untie him to bring him God knows where, probably to beat him senseless, D’Artagnan regained fully his consciousness, and everything went downhill from that moment.

Because it turned out that their puppy-eyed Gascon was as much determined to keep Guibeaux’s hands away from Aramis as the marksman himself was set on protecting D’Artagnan. And to Aramis’ horror, Guibeaux let himself be distracted by his brother’s spiteful words, deciding to start with him, instead.

“I’ll make you beg me for mercy, boy”, the man spat, ordering his thugs to take D’Artagnan. “I’ll make you wish you’d never been born”.

And he tried, oh God, _he tried._

Struggling helplessly on the hard ground, Aramis had tried to stop them. He had shouted for the man to take him instead, cursing and threatening and yelling so loud that they had gagged him with a dirty scarf tightly bound around his head, and then he was left there. Wincing at every gasp, groan, scream that escaped D’Artagnan lips while they beat him to unconsciousness. He had lasted hours. _Hours_.

 

And even then, he didn’t give up. Shortly after he awoke Guibeaux came back, to start again.  
“Beg me to spare your life, boy, and I'll play with your friend there”.  
“No”. D’Artagnan hissed, spitting a mouthful of blood right on the man’s shirt.

And they had tortured him again.

 

By now, around noon of their first day of imprisonment, Aramis was struggling so hard against his bonds that his hand and feet were covered in blood, but the ropes were so secure that even after all the fight he had put up against them they didn’t loosen one bit. And he didn't even care if his face was red for trying to shout around his gag, or if his head throbbed so fiercely he could vomit and then choke. It was just unconceivable, so darn _unbearable_ to lay there immobilized while his brother’s body was being abused so viciously.

He had lost consciousness, but as soon as he came to he started to fight again, so ferociously that they had to beat him too, just to knock him out.

But even the day after that walk through Hell D’Artagnan wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t surrender. Wouldn’t let the man move his attention on Aramis. It didn’t matter how _hard_ the Spaniard pleaded him, or how long they hurt him, he was just _immovable_.

And the worst part was that it became a challenge, for Guibeaux, to break the boy. Because D’Artagnan might be young, but he also was fiercely loyal, and nobody would lay a finger on his brothers, not if he could prevent it. _Never_ , if he’d have a say in it.

 

But that impasse was going to end soon.

 

Because lowering his gaze on his chest, D’Artagnan knew he didn’t have much time left. His ribs were cracked, a few were broken, his flesh was almost unrecognizable, and he was freezing with cold even if he felt burning up from the inside, which meant he was running a high fever, probably at least one of his injures were infected. Chances were that if they didn’t beat him to death, a rib would pierce something vital, or the fever would consume him. And he dreaded that moment. Because, should he die, Aramis would follow him soon enough, much too soon, indeed. Because if there was one thing he was sure of in his life was that none of them would betray their brothers by giving those bastards information about them. So, death was what awaited them. He just hoped he could last long enough for Athos and Porthos to find them and rescue Aramis. That would be enough, eve if he knew that, once dead, he’d miss them, and Constance too, something _fierce_.

But who knows, maybe, knowing he had died to protect his brother would help him to overcome that grief. Well, provided that he had the chance to end up in Heaven, which he wasn’t so sure about. He had killed, for good reasons in his opinion since he was a soldier, but he had killed nonetheless.

 

In the end, anyway, even the possibility to go to Hell didn’t matter to him.  
Because nothing - not his life or his death, nor his hopes about his future or the things he would have liked to do before getting old - nothing could compare to that ferocious protectiveness that had awakened in his chest as soon as he understood that those bastards were going to torture Aramis. He had never felt something that strong in his life. As if he was struck by a lightening, and that lightening had set him on fire, flames of rage engulfing him so completely that he had lost his ability to speak for a moment. But when he had regained it…

 

He wouldn’t let them hurt Aramis.  
End of the story.

 

So that’s why, three days later, he was trying to distract his older brother. He knew he probably wouldn’t survive to see the sun rise, and even if he was ready to say goodbye to this world, even if he’d never regret his decision to sacrifice himself to save him, he felt more alive than ever, and he suddenly was overwhelmed with the need to know as much as possible about Aramis before too late. Like capturing a glimpse of his rich, powerful, startingly dashing personality, of his luminous soul, to held close to him when darkness would stretch its claws to snatch him.

Oh, how he’d like to hug his brother one last time…

He wasn’t used to physical contact. Well, he hadn’t been until he met his friends. It was from them that he had learned how deeply _shocking_ could be a hug, how comforting could feel the touch of just one hand, how much he ached, even if he hadn't realized it before, for a shoulder to lean on. They taught him to ask for help without shame, _well they tried, at least_ , D’Artagnan mused allowing himself to smile a little even if his lips were cracked from thirst. How to take care of a drunken brother, how to comfort him, to sobering him up, to settle him on his bed and then sit with him until dawn. And how he loved their hugs. To be true, he experienced Athos’ ones just one time, after the whole Vadim ordeal, but it was enough to burn the memory permanently in his heart. Aramis, instead, was a tactile person, so he frequently hugged him, something that always made his stomach flicker with warmth and affection. Porthos too often encircled his shoulders in his bear-sized arms, and even if it was usually in a playful way, he still felt honored, and deeply content all the same. ‘Cos D’Artagnan wasn’t really the cuddly type, he was strong, independent, maybe just a little hot headed, but he discovered that he didn’t mind his brothers’ attentions, _not at all_.

 

But right now Aramis was chained on the other side of the wall to which his wrists were tied, and he couldn’t hope to get the chance to reach him close enough to hug him. So he had to settle for words, instead.

“So, Porthos told me the truth? About the cloth, I mean” the Gascon repeated, starting to worry when his brother didn’t answer. Was he unconscious again?  
“Yes” the Spaniard said after a long pause, his voice thick and strained.  
“Tell me about it” D’Artagnan prodded, eager to listen to his brother's voice for maybe the last time.

There was another long pause before he could hear Aramis’ velvety words fill softly the empty barn where they were imprisoned.

“It was a long time ago” the Musketeer remembered, trying to focus on his memory, instead of on their situation. As hard as he tried he couldn’t escape those chains, and bare footed, shirtless and with only his breeches to cover him, he didn’t have anything to try and pick the lock. “I fall in love once, did you know that?”

“No", D’Artagnan smiled softly, closing his eyes and resting his head against the wet, cold wall at his back. "what’s her name?”

 

Aramis closed his eyes too, bringing his chained hands to his face, wearied. He could almost see her again in his mind… so pretty with those sparkling blue eyes and long blond hair, her soft porcelain skin almost milky under the sunlight. “I was in love… I really loved her, you know? But… we were going to have a child, I wanted to marry her but… she lost the baby, and then she disappeared. I tried to find her”, he choked, so overwhelmed by their ordeal that the lost his fight with his emotion almost immediately. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t find her. Her father hid her from me, he never told me where she is”.

 

“I… I’m sorry, Aramis”, and D’Artagnan voice was so loaded with pain for his brother's sorrow, the Spaniard felt it even if he couldn’t see him. “I… didn’t mean to bring back unhappy memories”.

“You didn’t know”, the Musketeer reassured him, “it was a long time ago, anyway. After that, my father tried to convince me to become a priest but… I’m a soldier, I’ve always been a soldier”.

“One of the best”.

Aramis huffed a small laugh at his little brother’s swift praise. Even bruised and battered his voice sounded so awed by them that it was, for the Spaniard, incredibly endearing. “You’ll get there too. You’ll see” he added as forcefully as he could, fisting his hands to give more strength to his words. They had to survive all this, they just had to, dammit. He couldn’t conceive that his brother would die in this Godforsaken barn, _dammit_. He wouldn’t let him.

 

So, he tried again, this time sternly.

“D’Artagnan this is an _order_. As soon as they come back, you’re going to beg them to spare you, do you understand me?” he commanded, swallowing his fears to sound sharp.

“No, I won’t do it”.

“Christ D’Artagnan! They’ll kill you!” Aramis snapped, straightening his back and turning his head as if he could look at him in the eyes. “You’ll die if… I won’t let you die, dammit! _I won’t!_ ”

“And _I_ ”, was his brother’s retort, as fierce as his own, “won’t let _you_ die!”.

 

And again, Aramis felt like crying. He tugged at his chains choked by a hot burning rage against those vile bastards and that _fool_ of a brother he had! How could he do something like that to him? To Aramis? Dear God, didn’t he know that his death would _destroy_ them? Athos, Porthos, and Aramis? How could they ever _forgive_ themselves if their youngest was killed like that!?!

But _God help him_ , he couldn’t make the boy understand, he thought viciously.

 

“I’m sorry”.

 

And his rage flowed away.

 

 _God_. _He knows me already so well_ … Aramis tiredly mused, too exhausted and…desolated to be able to smile, even a little. For his brother's words were soft like feathers, and still full of meaning. He spoke with knowledge, because.. yes… he indeed knew Aramis that well.

 

“You’ll apologize later”, the sharpshooter replied, swallowing to keep his voice steady, “please, just this time, do as I say”. He was begging, and he couldn’t care less. He didn’t feel his dark sweat-mattered curls sticking to his face, to his neck, his forehead, or the throbbing pain that was stabbing his very core in sync with his heartbeat. Neither he felt his flesh burn where ropes and chains had sliced it open, or the pain hit his body at every breath he took due to his bruised ribs. Not anymore. His attention was fully devoted to the vital need to persuade his little brother to obey to His.Fucking.Order. Just this time, _dammit!_

 

How _naive_ of him.

 

“I’m sorry” D’Artagnon repeated, ignoring his brother’s pleas, “because I know you’ll believe I died because some mistake you made but let me tell you now, Aramis: you’re _wrong_. Do you hear me?”

“D’Artagnan-”

“Let me finish”, the Gascon interrupted him, swallowing a thick lump in his throat, tear-filled eyes working convulsively to keep the moist at bay. “You did all you could to keep me safe, Aramis, always, even when I was just someone who helped to clear Athos’ name. You guys saved me from myself, grabbed my hand when I was drowning in that darkness I found myself in when my father was murdered. And never, _not once_ , you did let go. You’ve been there for me even when I didn’t realize I needed help, I was alone, and broken, but you found all the pieces and put me together. You..”.

 

He swallowed, hard, he had to say it, to go on. “You offered me your shoulder to lean on, your comfort when I grieved, your sword when I was in danger. Without ever asking for anything in return. _Ever_. And I know that’s a bit sloppy but… I’d die over and over to save you. Each and every one of you. Because you might not believe me… but you’re the best men I know. And I love you. Please don’t… if I die” he added, wiping a tear that had escaped his control with his chained bloodied hands. “Please don’t… let Athos and Porthos… I need to know that you’ll…”. He didn’t know how to put it, really, so he stumbled with words, trying to make sense in what he was going to say.

 

“How touching! Hey Gus, aren’t they sweet? I think I’m going to weep!”

 

D’Artagnan cursed when that voice interrupted him. Apparently, they had run out of time.

At least, he had the chance to say goodbye. A meager comfort since he’d probably die.. he just hoped Aramis would listen to him because the very thought of his older brothers’ reaction to his death, of Athos’ reaction… _God_. He couldn’t be the reason for their defeat. Not him, not just a Gascon farmer’s boy, _dammit!_

 

“Come on, little one! Time to play again!” Guibeaux sneered maliciously, ordering is men to unchain him from the wall.

“NO! NO LET HIM GO, YOU DISGUSTING SON OF A BITCH! I’LL KIL-”.

The boot that slammed into his ribs left Aramis stunned for a long moment, his body sliding to the ground once again while he faintly registered a vague clinking of chains, and the thundering sound of flesh against flesh. But he gasped, he forced himself to breathe, and as soon as he regained his bearings he resumed his shouts, hoping beyond hope that finally they would focus their attention on him, giving D’Artagnan some rest.

 

“Let him go, do you understand!?” he roared hoarsely, scrambling to a sitting position and renewing his struggling against his chains. “You hurt him, and I'll come for you! I’ll tear you apart, son of a bitch! I swear!”.

 

Guibeaux finally turned, interrupting for a moment D’Artagnan’s torture, his steely cold eyes glimmering with a flash of malice.

“A pretty little Musketeer you are, aren’t you?” he mused, regarding him with a long, hard stare before approaching him, clearly pleased with the sight of a Musketeer squirming on the ground at his feet. “What’s wrong, my friend?" he grinned viciously, using his fine boot to press the Spaniard flat on his back. “You can’t see the show? Would you like to sit closer?”. His grin broadened as soon as he caught the look of pure horror that crossed Aramis’ eyes, motioning for his men to come closer. “Unchain him and bring him nearer. We wouldn't want for him to miss all the fun, right?”.

 

And then he stepped back, enjoying the fight that Aramis put up, even if he was injured and exhausted after three days without food, just a little water, and beatings. He watched as his men lifted him from the ground to move him in front of D’Artagnan, currently hanging from his chained wrist linked to the brick wall at his back, probably unconscious, blood dripping from his nose, his cheek, and his split lip down to his abused chest, staining his breeches, just to pin him to the ground, tying his hands and feet in ropes and then binding them together.

“Ah, that’s better, mh?” Guibeaux asked, toying with his black riding gloves, moving around until his boots were right in front of Aramis’ face. “Now, will you shut up or I have to gag you as well?”

 

“You are dead” the Musketeer grunted, uselessly trying to work on the ropes while eyeing the man with a burning rage so fierce that Guibeaux’s thugs fidgeted. He was pale, dark smudges under his piercing brown eyes, blackened by the sheer hatred that blazed through him, and out of breath, since his forced position and the fight strained had his body more than it already was. But with that look in his eyes… he looked _deadly_. More than ever.

 

Only Guibeaux just seemed amused by his threats, intrigued by his hatred. “As you wish, my friend” he sneered, lowering himself on his knees to grab Aramis roughly by his hair, so forcefully that the Spaniard’s head snapped backward. “Marcel? Gag our friend, so we shall enjoy our entertainment in peace”.

 

“I’ll make you regret all of this” Aramis growled, tensing to try and escape his hold, his velvet voice dripping with venom, his eyes thunderous and unwavering even if he felt the man approach him to accomplish his orders. “I will make you wish you’d never born” he spat dead serious, never leaving his face even when they gagged him.

 

Guibeaux again just stared at him amusedly, savoring the moment when a scarf was pressed into the Musketeer’s mouth, and then bounded firmly around his head. And as soon as the Musketeer was gagged, he released his curls, moving his hand to Aramis’ shoulder, to push him until he was forced to his side. “Maybe we could talk in private after I’ve finished with your young friend there”, he mused, careless of those ferocious dark eyes threatening him with all their might, sliding a finger to his muscled bare chest, where the cross the Queen had given to him rested. “You look a little tense, but I know how to make you more docile”.

 

Aramis growled, struggled, cursed, but his attention shifted abruptly as soon as he saw one of the men move in front of D’Artagnan again, presumably to resume the beating. And for a long, long moment his heart just stopped. A dead weight dropped in his chest as he realized that his wild desperate eyes were probably resting on his brother, alive, for the last time. That he already had lost his chance to… _God_ … to tell him how much he meant to them, how much they loved him, their little brother, they comrade, their protégé. And he didn’t even noticed his eyes filling up with tears, his stomach so knotted that he was probably going to be sick, his heart still muted, irresponsive… he was paralyzed by that heart-wrenching knowledge, and he.. didn’t know, really, he didn’t know what to do.

 

So he tried to struggle harder, to scream as loud as he could while gagged to… just stop them. _Please stop!_ He… couldn’t just lay there and watch. _My God_ … he couldn’t stare helplessly at his little brother’s death. But how could he fight if he wasn’t able to move? How he could save him, so close and yet so distant from him, if he couldn’t lift a finger to help? He wasn’t strong enough, Aramis realized straining his arms with no avail, oblivious to the pain, the blood, and the tears that streamed freely now on his handsome face. He wasn’t enough. D’Artagnan was dying right in front of him, merely few steps away, and he couldn’t do _anything_ to save him. The boy that with his presence had changed them, easing the burden left on their shoulders by their past and all its shadows. _Dear God_ … what did he do to deserve such pain?

He felt like… exploding, like shattering in pieces as soon as he saw those monster hit his brother again, and then again, his eyes closed, blood staining his amber-colored skin like a grotesque maquillage. He couldn’t… look anymore, he couldn’t…

 

And he felt almost relieved when a powerful kick in his stomach left him nearly unconscious. Everything was better than that. Pain, fear, loneliness. His own death, even. He would gladly trade place with D’Artagnan, and he would say thank you, too. But he couldn’t look. And now, incapable of breathing, he was left there, in the darkness, alone, weakly calling the boy's name in muffle sounds, cheek pressed against a cool, hard, dirty ground that rumbled of steps and boots.

 

Until he felt shouts, and then hands. He figured that his little brother was dead, and it was his turn.

And the rage, the mind blowing rage that had consumed him until few moments ago came back with a vengeance, and he struggled harder than ever, this time purposefully with the intent of freeing himself and kill those damned bastards who murdered D’Artagnan. They’ll pay, until their last drop of blood, he’d make sure of that.

 

That’s why it took him so long to focus on the hands that were fighting to hold him still beside the ropes that were tying him.

But even then, in the maelstrom that it was his pain-exhausted mind, he had to concentrate hard to just feel the warmth that radiated from them. And harder to recognize who owned those hands, and the voice, that voice, firm, and oh so reassuring, that was calling his name.

 

“Aramis!”

 

_Athos._

 

He shot his eyes open, blinking furiously trough his tears to make out his brother’s face beyond his blurry vision. And he almost collapsed in relief when, finally, squinting as hard as he could, he found his brother's winter-cold eyes, the shade of the ocean right before a hell of a storm. Athos was there, to rescue him. Athos was beyond _furious_.

But as soon as he repeated his brother’s name he realized that Porthos must be somewhere near too, and that thought brought back forcefully his little brother’s face… and he couldn’t stop himself to struggle again, all the while trying to call for him despite his gag.

 

“Aramis stop! Stop fighting me! You’re hurting yourself further!”.

It was Athos’ grip on him that grounded Aramis again, so suddendly that, completely out of breath from the ordeal, he gasped, turning abruptly his head towards him. His Lieutenant was holding him up with his arms around his waist, very gently despite his struggles, and actually was the only thing that kept him upright since his forced position.

“Very well Aramis, keep looking at me. _Breathe_. Don’t fight. It’s me, Athos. Can you hear me?” the Musketeer spoke very calmly, despite the rage he felt himself at his brother’s conditions. He nearly had a heart attack when, bursting through the door with Porthos and ten Musketeers behind him, he saw Aramis lay there, on the ground, half unconscious, bound and struggling with every inch of his life. And worst, when he realized why exactly his brother was straining so hard against the ropes that his hands and feet were coated in blood, both fresh and old.

 

But Aramis’ frantic nodding mercifully distracted him from his thoughts, focusing him on the matter at hands. Right now he had his arms full of a very agitated Spaniard and he had to keep calm to help him. To help both of his brothers.

“Now I'm going to remove your gag, don’t move, understood?”

Aramis nodded again, this time less forcefully, and with another look at his wide brown eyes he moved his hand to untie the scarf fastened around his head. But he had to lower his arm immediately after the gag was removed from the Musketeer’s mouth, because Aramis started coughing so viciously that, still restrained, he would have fallen over.

“There, there… breath Aramis… you’re safe. Just breath” he murmured, holding his brother until his coughing fit subsided, leaving him out of breath, and exhausted.

 

“D’Artagnan”, the Musketeer gasped, his voice hoarse and rough, “D’Artagnan… ‘thos… he’s dead… I couldn’t…”

“No, Aramis, calm down”, Athos immediately reassured him, understanding what his brother must fear. “He is unconscious, and in a bad shape, but he is alive. Porthos is with him right now. Now try to lean on me, I'm going to cut those ropes”.

 

“Right” the Spaniard wheezed, resting his cheek in the crook of his brother’s neck. Alive. D’Artagnan was _alive_. He felt like crying, again, at this revelation, for he had been sure, deadly sure that it was too late to save him. He didn’t even realize how much he was shivering right now, while Athos was working to release him mindful of his torn flesh. The relief he felt was so powerful, so overwhelming that he had to remind himself to breath, or he would faint.

 

 _Dear God… so close_ … so close they’d been to lose their youngest, that Aramis couldn’t keep from shuddering, relishing Athos’ touch on his frozen skin. He knew that maybe he should feel ashamed of his breakdown, he was sobbing, hard, so much that Athos’ grip on him tightened protectively, but he couldn’t find in him enough space to fit that emotion. Relief. Only that. He was so grateful that they had rescued them when they did, that in the end they would all leave that darn place alive that he couldn’t even worry about D’Artagnan’s injuries. He will heal, of that he would make sure. Because God help him, after all they had to suffer, after the pain, the fear, that impossible despair, he’d never, ever let some wound to take away their little brother from them. From _him_.

“I’m sorry, brother” Athos murmured, helping him to sit on the ground so he could move on his back, and untie his wrists, eyes downcast and guilt riddled voice.

“For what” Aramis croaked, trying his best to avoid falling over again, wincing a little when Athos’ main-gauche started to slice the ropes wrapped deeply around his hands

“We should have come earlier”.

 

Ah, _of course_. If relief hadn’t been overpowering everything else in his heart, Aramis would have laughed. Or he’d have tried, since his throat was throbbing something fierce, and to keep his stomach in check was harder by the minute. He should have seen that coming the moment he recognized Athos’ face.

“Don’t, Athos” he stressed, his voice thick with emotions and pain, stronger each passing second. “Please just… _don’t_. You’re here now, you _rescued_ us. There’s nothing more you could have done, my brother”.

 

Athos winced as soon as he unwrapped the ropes, revealing deep bruises and torn skin underneath, his wrists lacerated as his ankles. So it took him a moment to muster a reply.

“Still… it pains me to see what they have done to you” he murmured, moving to help Aramis to his feet and then holding him up by slinging his brother's arm around his own shoulders.

“I know” the Spaniard nodded, summoning the strength to title his head a little, enough to leave a kiss on his older brother's temple. “Let’s go to check on D’Artagnan”.

 

Only then Aramis took notice of the situation around him. There was blood… so much blood everywhere, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t their own. That his brothers in arm, his fellow Musketeers, had outdone themselves to make those bastards, who had captured them, pay. He was going to ask about Guibeaux, but as soon as he parted his lips to form a question, he spotted him. And he couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction he felt the moment he looked at the body. A gunshot had hit him squarely in his chest, and he could recognize Porthos’ schiavona impaled in his stomach few inches from the bloodied hole. Apparently, Athos and Porthos had laid a claim on the bastard.

But he didn’t stop to stare longer, or to mull over Guibeaux’s death. He had a little brother to heal.

 

They found him with Porthos, lying on a blue cloak stretched on the ground, so still and pale that Aramis’ heart almost stopped again. But then he approached him, and he saw his chest rise and fall in sync with his breathing.

“Aramis”, Porthos murmured, raising to give him a brief hug, enough to convey how concerned he was, and how glad he felt to see him there, safe, _finally_.

Aramis exchanged with him a knowing stare before nodding and moving painfully at D’Artagnan’s side. He was unconscious, but thank God, aside from a few blows on his already abused face, his ribs weren’t worse than when he last saw them. So he breathed again in relief, letting his head fall into his hands for a moment before recomposing himself and start taking care of him. Without being asked, two of his comrades in arms brought water and bandages, murmuring few questions about D’Artagnan’s conditions low enough not to bother Aramis, and slowly, with his brothers’ help he bandaged him as tightly as he could, to keep his ribs in check until they could find someplace to rest and clean up, to better examine him.

 

He was almost in a daze, Aramis, so disconnected that he could focus only on his task, oblivious to the deep concern that filled his brothers’ eyes at seeing not only D’Artagnan out cold, but Aramis that… devastated. He didn’t even notice the Captain checking on them, incapable to hide his own concern at finding Aramis and D’Artagnan in those conditions, or one of the other Musketeer arrive with a wagon for their Gascon, who obviously couldn’t be moved on a horseback. He just concluded his ministrations, and then allowed Athos and Porthos to lift so very gently D’Artagnan to lay him on the wagon bed, before coming back to help him too.

And then he just sat, his little brother’s hand clasped between his own, doing his best to keep his own pain in check, for he wouldn’t _allow_ himself to pass out until D’Artagnan was cared for.

 

So he couldn’t remember a thing about the short, bumpy trip to a small Inn, just an hour ride from that blasted barn they were imprisoned into, nor he felt the rain that had started to pour soon after they left their comrades and their Captain behind, the way Porthos tried to talk to him, and Athos’ stare, more and more worried by every passing second. He sat still when he had to sat still, and then he stood when his brothers grabbed gently his bruised arms to help him stand, following them inside the inn with only D’Artagnan in his mind.

 

Everything was automatic. He checked his ribs again, he bathed him with a few rags and a lot of soap with his brothers’ help, to clean both his body and his wounds, and then he started to examine him, murmuring what he discovered on D’Artagnan’s chest, arms and legs without even realize it. Only as he finished he somewhat came to.

He tied the last strips of bandage on his little brother’s side, and then he blinked, realizing for the first time that he felt cold, but not as much as before, that he wasn’t shivering anymore, and that his flash was truly, and undeniably, in agony.

And as soon as that thought crossed his mind he collapsed, his knees buckling under him so suddenly that a gasp left his mouth. But obviously, his brothers would never let him get near the floor.

 

Increasingly worried, Athos and Porthos had listened to him point out every injury inflicted on their younger brother – cracked, bruised and broken ribs, blood loss, two knife wounds, one in his shoulder, one in his thigh, both infected, concussion and a bad gash on his forehead, plus a long collection of cuts and bruises, the worst on his wrists due to the position they held him to beat him up – cursing and swearing out loud, but keeping their eyes trained on the Spaniard too, for he looked ready to faint at any moment. So, they simply reached for him as soon as they saw him fell down, readily catching him to lay him down on the spare bed situated in the small but comfy room they paid for.

 

And they resumed their act of doctoring wounds, this time on Aramis’. They bathed him too, mindful of how his skin was shredded, cleaning his injuries, and then they bandaged his wrists, ankles and chest, before covering him in a thick, woolen blanket to help his body to regain its warmth.

 

“Rest, Porthos” Athos sighed as soon as they finished, running a hand over his face tiredly. “I’ll watch over them for awhile”. He couldn’t sleep anyway, not after everything that happened. He knew that probably Porthos couldn’t too, so enraged and concerned they both felt, but he knew they were spent now that adrenaline had left them. They’d have nightmares, he was sure of that. He’d probably see Aramis struggling hogtied on the floor, shouting for D’Artagnan as loudly as he could. He’d dream about dead little brothers, of being late to save them, of failing their young one to as he failed Thomas. They were alive, and he was beyond grateful for that, but they were scarred, all of them. He could detect the sorrow in Porthos’ eyes, refusing sleep in order to retrieve a bottle of red wine resting on the small table in the corner of the room, to take a lost, deep sip. They were nearly too late. For he’d almost never seen Aramis like that, so he was pretty sure on his assumption. And that thought… it was killing them.

 

“Come on, Athos, drink”, Porthos murmured, resting a hand on his older brother’s shoulder to ground him, offering him the wine with the other one. “They are safe now, and we won’t let them out of our sight for a _long_ time”.

 

Athos couldn’t muster the strength to form a reply, hence he simply nodded, raising his cup to his lips and drinking greedily, blessing the warmth that the wine spread through him. His eyes grateful as they rested on his brother’s face, realizing that his hand hadn’t moved from his back.

“D’Artagnan'll be fine, and so Aramis. Although I’d like very much to kill th' bastard again for what he had done” Porthos added, his dark soulful eyes seeking again his unconscious brothers.

“Me and you both, Porthos”, Athos nodded, a low, deep menacing sound. “Me and you both”.

 

And then they fell silent. Because there wasn’t anything more they could say about what happened. About what they had witnessed. Because their words were stuck in their throats, entangled with guilt, grief, concern and pain, their flesh burning in sync with their brothers’ injuries. They couldn’t even afford to rest their eyes for a little while, for they feared that D’Artagnan’s chest would stop rising and falling along with his breathing, that Aramis would just disappear, leaving behind his struggling voice, weaker and weaker as he begged hoarsely for their boy's life. They couldn’t move. They could just sit with their brothers’ hands wrapped in their own, trying to will them to heal from both their physical and emotional injuries with the power of their soft prayers, even if they weren’t men of faith, not anymore, maybe they had never been. But they were ready to pray from dusk till down if that meant to gain a small chance to help them.

 

Porthos stroked D’Artagnan’s hand with his fingers, releasing a deep sigh. He was running a fever, his little brother, so he tucked his blanket more firmly under his chin, taking the time to refresh the cold compress on his forehead. He looked peaceful, even if those bandits had almost beaten him to death. Even if they had found him hanging from his wrists, in chains, unconscious, barely clothed in his breeches, dripping blood from his chest as if he was a slaughtered animal killed by a ruthless hunter. And he sighed, again. For every time that image played in his tired mind he had to fight his own body to keep from leaving that room and just… scream in rage. They had faced some nasty situations in their life as Musketeers, he knew that. Their bodies were littered with scars that were nothing less than reminders of all the times they had escaped their death. And still… this time, they felt lost. Maybe it was because Aramis wasn’t there to lift their spirit with his light baritonal voice, a twinkle in those charming orbs that could make even a _gravedigger_ smile. Maybe it was because, instead, they had found their marksman so utterly devastated, and after Savoy it wasn’t an easy task to break him. Maybe it was due to the love and the fierce protectiveness they all felt for D’Artagnan, for they had never had a little brother to protect, Aramis and Porthos at least. But probably for Athos, it was even worse, after all he had lost his first younger brother, and sometimes he looked like he’d gladly lock up this one just to make sure he’d be safe.

 

He didn’t know why, really, Porthos Du Vallon. But they couldn't help it. Until both their brothers’ wouldn’t wake up, he knew that they couldn't banish that overwhelming bitterness from their hearts, thick like a blanket wrapped tightly around them. They were frozen in their concern, feeling both helpless and utterly spent, glistening eyes struggling to keep their tears at bay, for crying wouldn’t help their brothers to come back to them. To heal. And they had to be strong for them, to help them recover. They had to.

 

Porthos didn’t even knew back then how hard it would be to keep that silent vow.

 

But he realized soon.

Both Aramis and D’Artagnan slept through the night, worn out by their ordeal and their injuries, and the sun was already rising when finally Athos felt their Spaniard’s finger move slightly in his hand. So he motioned for Porthos to come a little closer, raising from his chair to better access to his brother, and help him as soon as it was needed.

“Aramis? Can you hear me?” he murmured, mindful of his other brother, still asleep.

 

He should have seen it coming.

For as soon as Aramis’ eyes opened, registering where he was, and with whom, he jerked roughly, struggling with all his might to haul himself into a sitting position, wild eyes frantically roaming the room, his lips already calling for D’Artagnan.

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” he gasped, weakly batting Athos’ hands away to keep him from pushing him down again, sweat already moistening his alarmingly pale forehead

“Aramis stop! Calm down, brother, D’Artagnan is here, he’s alive. Please, breath!”

 

Athos and Porthos had to repeat those words more than a couple of time before the wild Musketeer in their arms stilled, allowing them to hold him long enough to place a few pillows behind him to help him rest more comfortably.

“A-Alive?” Aramis panted, his voice choked by his own hammering heart.

“Yes, Aramis. You took care of from him yesterday, before you passed out. He is running a fever, but thanks to you he is healing, calm down and deep breaths, brother” Athos reassured, all the while stroking his dark curls with his hand.

“Alive” Aramis repeated, trying to focus on his brothers’ touch, Porthos’ hand on his chest, Athos’ caressing his hair, to regain control over his heart.

“Yea', 'mis, yea'. Please calm down” Porthos murmured, beyond grateful for the strong pulse that was his brother’s heartbeat under his fingers.

“What happened, Aramis” Athos asked, trying to silence that coward part of him that didn’t want to know, not after Aramis’ reaction. What could those bastards have done to them to scare their marksman so much? _Aramis_ , for God’s sake, who could thread a needle in the middle of a raging battlefield, while grinning too.

And he couldn’t help the dread that filled his gut as soon as his question made Aramis flinch.

 

But then the Spaniard set his jaw firmly, taking a deep breath and moving enough to cover his brothers’ hand with his own, as if to reassure himself that that hellish nightmare was finally over, that Porthos and Athos rescued them just in time to save D’Artagnan’s life.

 

Still, his eyes were glistening as soon as his lips parted to retell what befell them, unaware of the anxious look that passed between his brothers.

“I tried”, Aramis’ breathed brokenly, swallowing to found his voice. “I _tried_ to beg with him, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He was _immovable_ , Athos” he said, pleading with his eyes for them to understand that he had tried, _dear God_ , he had tried. And the former Comte couldn’t help it. He felt… he had to tighten his jaw to keep from choking. That plea was almost his undone. So he had to breathe deeply in order to reassure Aramis, his hand still stroking his curls even if he wasn’t aware of that anymore.

 

“Hush Aramis, you’re safe, brother, you’re both safe. Please don’t upset yourself, you are in no conditions to strain your body further” he murmured, trying to convey his devotion to him with his piercing blue eyes.

And it worked, for Aramis nodded a little before taking a deep breath too.

 

“They found us in the woods, we tried to fight them but they were too many, a bullet hit me and D’Artagnan called my name. They knocked him unconscious… and then they hit me too. When I came to I realized we were prisoners, and I tried, I- really tried to.. they were going to torture us to force us to give them information about you, so I tried to focus their attention on me but…", he paused, struggling to keep from crying, gather the strength to speak about one of the worst moments of his life.

“He was a fool”, he whispered, his voice hoarse, thick with emotions, his own pain forgotten under the weight of those memories. “He came to just as they were going to take me somewhere to beat me and…”

“ _Christ_ ” Porthos muttered, hiding his face in his large palm to banish the image Aramis’ words were summoning in his mind.

“Go on, Aramis” Athos sighed, his own chest constricted in…. fury, and agony.

“He protected me” Aramis exhaled, still astonished at the insane, insane courage of his little brother. “He provoked them, so much that they took him instead, and they tortured him for hours. They wanted him to beg them for his life, but… he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t, dear God, for they would have tortured me if he surrendered. And he didn’t. No matter how much I _implored_ him to let them take me. He wouldn’t even listen to me…”.

 

“Oh Aramis…” Porthos murmured, lifting him from his bed to hug him protectively, even if he knew he couldn’t banish those painful memories from his mind. Athos too moved, for witnessing Aramis breaking down before them was heart-shattering, positioning himself so his body was resting against his brother’s back.

 

“You did what you could to defend him, Aramis” the Lieutenant promised, his voice deep, protective and _oh_ so reassuring. “And in turn, he did what he could to shield you”

“But he shouldn’t have!” the Spaniard snapped, struggling briefly to free himself from then before realizing it was useless. For they’d never, _ever_ let him go. “He shouldn’t have, Athos” he repeated brokenly, losing his battle with his tears, nauseous from the depth of his emotions.

 

“I know, brother. I know” Porthos softly answered, resting his chin on those flower scented curls.

“He resisted, for three days”, the marksman breathed, fisting Porthos shirt in his white trembling hand. “For _me_. He… he told me… when he was sure he’d die then and there he told me… he’d die for us, over and over.. he said… he loves us. Just like that. And I was chained to a wall”, he whispered brokenly, “and I couldn’t reach him to… shake some sense into him or just… hold him. I couldn’t to _nothing_. And when they came back to take him again, just before you rescued us… they made me watch. They wanted me to watch him die. I thought I was going to loose my mind… I couldn't bear… I…”

 

“Shh… you are safe now, 'Mis, we won’t let anything happen to you, to the both of you. I promise” Porthos assured hoarsely, tightening his hold on their trembling Spaniard.

“I know” was the feeble reply, so faint that Athos arms encircled Aramis on their own accord. But I can’t help feeling as if I failed him”.

 

“You did not such a thing, Aramis!” Athos stressed sharply. “You understand? D’Artagnan is one of us, he is our brother, and he did what he could to keep you safe. You would have done the same for him if you could, you had tried to protect him too!”

“Here, here” Porthos nodded, grabbing gently Aramis’ chin to lift his head. “Don’t think like that, brother. You know how protective D’Artagnan is, we are his family, he’d do all he could to keep us safe”.

 

“He’s… right”.

 

They literally jumped at that barely audible, croaked reply, so much that D’Artagnan would have laughed out loud if he could. He had never seen his brothers that much startled, always so alert they were. But his chest was in agony, the simple act of uttering few words was an agony, so he settled for a small smile. Enough to convey how deeply, utterly, totally glad he was to see them there, with him, when he thought he would never see them again. Not in this life, anyway.

 

“D’Artagnan”.

 

His smile broadened at his brothers’ relief. And he felt his own eyes fill up with tears as he saw them scramble to their feet to reach him, grabbing what they could of him to just make sure he was really alive. And embarrassment was the farthest thing from his mind when Athos’ hand cupped his cheek with obvious affection, making him blush with pleasure. Or when Porthos just rested his forehead against his own, eyes closed and mouth tight, for he couldn’t even think about speaking his own relief. He let his tears streak his face, certain that his brothers would wipe them away, reaching for Aramis, to finally get the hug he so much needed.

His lips found his brother’s curl as soon as he felt him sobbing with relief and sorrow, for he couldn’t bear to see him suffer like that. “Shh Aramis, I’m fine”, the boy rasped, already exhausted but determined to bring him comfort. “Please, don’t cry”.

Aramis let out a strangled laugh at that, raising his head to shoot him a watery glare. “I’d like to kill you”, he choked, “you… _brave_ , loyal, crazed fool! Try to pull a stunt like that again, and I might do just that!”

D’Artagnan smiled at that, ‘cos anyway, a tear streaked Aramis wasn’t really threatening.

“I won’t make any promise, bro…ther”, he breathed, forcing his voice out despite the throbbing agony he felt pulsing everywhere beneath his flesh. “I… will always… try to… protect you. Understood?”. 

Aramis just rolled his eyes, muttering few incomprehensible words at that. But his lips found their little brother’s forehead, and if his cheeks were flushed, so obviously that Porthos and Athos were both grinning fondly while watching him as he inspected D’Artagnan’s wounds, nobody said anything.

And D’Artagnan sighed in contentment as he closed his exhausted eyes again.

Yes. He would always, always do his best to protect those three men. For he might be young, and nowhere as strong as them. He might still be green, and beardless, even, much to Porthos’ mirth. But he didn’t need any training in _love_. He loved them with flesh and bones, with heart over his mind, with spirit and soul. _And God helps those who’d try to hurt them._


	10. Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For the first time since his father’s death, he felt that everything was following the right path in his life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so. You really made me cry with all those beautiful words you said to me about the last chapter, you really outdone yourselves, and I don't really know how to thank you. You are all amazing, and I appreciated to no end the time you took to let me know your opinion about 'Immovable'. 
> 
> To thank you I thought to publish 'Loved' right away, and I would like do dedicate it to each and every one of you, DebbieF, Sigmund, FierGascon, Snow_Glory, Jiyn, Ebm36, Clara, Jmp and Buckeye01, and to the many friends who left kudos or added a bookmark. Thank you, really. I'm awed.
> 
> This chapter was born from our friend Margret's prompt: “I would love very much to read about some cuteness, or maybe bittersweetness, between Constance and D’Artagnan. I love their lovestory and I always felt there is something missing between 1x07 e 1x08”. A little bit of fluff to - hopefully - make you smile, before a couple of more 'angsty' chapters that I'll publish soon. I really hope you'll like it, and please, reviews are always much cherished. 
> 
> Post scriptum: Italic means flashback.

_“To love at all is to be vulnerable._  
_Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken._  
_If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal._  
_Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements._  
_Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness._  
_But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change._  
_It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable._  
_To love is to be vulnerable.”_  
(C.S. Lewis)

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nothing, in his life, had ever tasted like that.

Like _her_.

Like the sweetest, and most fragrant, freshly-baked bread mixed with cinnamon and the Sun, with raindrops and rainbows, so warm and so dazzling that he had immediately felt himself drown.

Bewitched.  
Infatuated.

 

Her softness under his fingertips, her gentle, perfectly-shaped curves melting under his own touch.

And her skin _, oh her skin_ , porcelain fair under the warming glow of dozens burning candles.

 

Even now, if he closed his eyes for just a moment he could see her stunningly periwinkle blue irises smiling at him, calling for him, _loving him_. Even now, if he concentrated on his own heartbeat he could feel his blood running hot in sync with her pulse. Her warmth, caramel and chocolate mingling together, rainfall drops shining after a long, summer day.

And he felt renewed.  
Liberated.

_Loved_.

 

Nothing had ever looked as beautiful as her long, curly mane, brushing against his young, naked chest.

Nothing had ever smelled as enticingly as her skin, a colorful bouquet of wildflowers freshly gathered from a lush, emerald green field.

And her lips. _Oh her lips_. Melting under his own demanding mouth, twitching, smiling, laughing, breathing his breath, caressing his heart.

He could float right now, and he wouldn’t even notice.

He could be hurt, deadly injured, even, and never feel the pain.

Her scent was all over his clothes, his hands, his lips, burning his throat, after the night they spent together, their first night as lovers, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, _stop smiling_.

 

_-*-*-_

 

 

_“I love you”._

_“I love you too D’Artagnan. Charles. I love you”._

_Constance’s murmur was barely a whisper, her cheek safely nestled in the crook of his neck, her fingers gripping his bare arms relishing the softness of his skin, her eyes closed, eyelids tickling his chin, enveloped in his scent._

_Hers. D’Artagnan was finally hers._

_“I’d die for you, Constance, mon amour. I would die for you” he breathed as a reply, tracing her neck with his own lips, marveling at her pulse under his touch. She was so stunningly beautiful that he couldn’t even think to let her go, to remove his hands, wrapped around her slim waist tight enough to remind himself that finally, finally, she was his. His to love, to please, to cherish. His to protect, to kiss, to comfort. Flesh against flesh, dark tresses tangling with coppery red curls, painting the most amazing color shade of brown the dying light of an early summer sunset. He had never felt more alive than right now, right there, holding her close to his bare chest, breathing heavily after, and for the first time, he had claimed her as his own. Because she would be his, he knew that. Forever. She was going to leave Bonacieux, it was just a matter of time, and soon, very soon he would be the one looking at those lovely, pretty eyelids flutter open in the morning to greet another day._

_“I can’t live without you, D’Artagnan” she gasped, rejoicing the unique way his lips could spread warmth under her sensitive skin. Like a fire, burning, strong, unwavering, like an ocean’s wave, so powerful to destroy everything in its curse. Like a summer storm, mighty and yet so much refreshing. Surely but steadily he had burst into her life turning everything she knew upside down, her fading dreams of love, her withering thoughts of hope, her frightening future, bound hand and foot to a man that treated her like a pretty doll, never enough to be truly loved, to be listened, to be trusted. Just an object to show off, a lovely jewel, nothing more. And he had conquered her heart so suddenly, and violently, that she was still breathless._

_But if being loved felt like that, Constance hoped she would never, ever be able to breathe properly again._

_“You’re the most amazing, beautiful, generous woman I’ve ever met, my love” D’Artagnan huskily whispered, lips barely brushing her curls, as if he was afraid to break the spell that was binding them together in that small, cozy kitchen. And he laughed when he felt her smile against his skin, cheeks flushing with love and joy._

_“And you are, sir, the most brave, reckless, amazing man I’ve ever met” she giggled, squealing with pleasure as she felt his arms move from their spot around her hips to circle her knees and easily lift her up, before he carried her to his room, careless of the plates, pots, apples, and vegetables rolled to the ground as a result of their first, unforgettable, and so intense moment of passion. Of Love._

_“Oh really?” he murmured, kissing her hair while his arms lowered her gently to the small bed. “Then I’m going to show you how truly amazing I am”._

_-*-*-_

 

He couldn't feel happier than he felt right now, even if a thrill ran down his spine as he recalled the dramatic events that had ultimately led them to each other. Was it really just a couple days ago since he and Porthos escorted Constance at home after her young friend, Therese, died while trying to give a letter to the Queen? And then the whole Ninon ordeal, sentenced to die on the pyre as a witch?

And yet, he knew he had loved her the moment he laid his eyes on her, on that faithful day a few months ago, when the snow covered the ground and the winter was still breathing hard on a silver clouded sky.

That’s why he was so happy, now.

He had tried so hard to win her love, to fight the guilt he felt every time he remembered that she was a married woman. For he knew they were meant to be together, somehow he had always known. And now that at last the moment had come, he felt tremble. And burn. And so very _alive_.

 

For the first time since his father’s death, he felt that everything was following the right path in his life.

Because what could possibly go wrong when he had three older brothers who had fairly adopted him when he thought he’d be all alone in this unfriendly world, with just a trunk full of dreams and hopes regarding his future, and a charming, loving woman who adored him at his side?

 

Yes, he could float and he’d never notice, ‘cos he felt like floating right now, while he crossed those few streets that separated Constance’s home from the garrison, crisp forenoon air brushing his flushed face and birds chirping their good morning to the world.

And he just couldn’t stop smiling.

He felt so truly, deeply _loved_ that he almost feared he would explode.

 

Everything was just so beautiful around him… the Seine gliding gracefully as a cascade of gems in the dust, the light gray walls of the gorgeous, ancient City, and the ocean-blue sky above him, illuminated by a generous full sun, benevolent as the caring arms of a lover, and fierce, as the most valiant warrior.

He felt the need to laugh. And to shout. And to spread his arms and just tell everybody that Constance loved him. Him! Charles D’Artagnan, from Lupiac, Gascony. A simple farm boy raised by an honorable ex-soldier and a beautiful brown haired, doe eyed woman who had loved him with all her heart until the day she died.

 

Constance loved him! D’Artagnan!

 

How could he _ever_ stop smiling? Even if that smile made him look like a fool?

He couldn’t even bring himself to care if his brothers would soon make fun of him! His heart was a waterfall erupting from a sky-high mountain, a fire burning from the depths of the Earth, a thunder breaking a silent, dark winter night, that happy he was, and he couldn’t reign his emotions. He couldn’t hide how loved he felt.

 

Nothing could ever bother him, not now, not with the devotion of his brothers and his woman, his Constance, protecting his soul.

 

_-*-*-_

 

 

_“The sun is rising, soon you’ll have to go”_

_“But I’ll be back. I’ll always come back to you, Constance”_

_“You promise?”_

_“I swear. I’ll never leave you, mon amour, never. Nothing could keep me apart from you, I'll always be back”_

_“I believe you”_

 

_-*-*-_

 

 

Paris was barely waking up when D’Artagnan made his way to the garrison, and he loved every second he spent walking through those small, empty streets, sun and shadows outlying the white tall buildings as if they were painted by the brush of an artist. When he breathed, he could still smell animals, men, rotten goods and mud, but there was something fresh in the early morning air too, as if the night had the power to dampen what stunk, bringing out the true scent of the earth. And he enjoyed it.

As much as he loved the low nickering noise of the horses, when they slept in the stables close to each other, or the redundant booming sound of the Notre Dame’s bells, marking every hour of the day with a timeless song, the sweet taste of an apple, and the cinnamon spice of Constance’s skin, as smooth as the richest silk, and equally delicate.

 

_-*-*-_

 

_He let his hands roam over her body, shoulders, arms, hands that intertwine and then climb up her slender hips, her perfect breast, reaching her mouth to part her lips and then claim them as their own._

_“Sweet” he murmured, never separating his mouth from hers, breathing her breath, savoring her taste._

_She gasped, fisting her pale hand into his dark locks to deepen the kiss. To reach his soul._

_-*-*-_

 

“Hey lad! Where ‘ave you been?”

D’Artagnan almost jumped out of his skin as soon as Porthos’ voice brutally awakened him from his thoughts. _When did he reach the garrison?_

And still, there they were.

_His brothers._

Porthos, standing beside their usual table, left hand still closed around the goblet of wine he had just put next to his food-filled plate, brow furrowed quizzically but lips smiling in affection at his youngest brother.

Aramis, tiredly lifting his curly head from his porridge, a flash of amusement in those dark dazzling orbs as soon as he spotted their young Gascon.

And Athos, nursing a cup, _probably wine_ , regarding him with a slightly pale face but piercing hurricane-blue eyes, his slightly hunched back betraying, for those who knew him well enough to see beyond his stoic expression, another late night.

 

And D’Artagnan couldn’t help himself.

As soon as he saw them there his smile just broadened, and before he could realize what he was doing he approached them waving his hand like a child, totally unaware of the three sets of eyebrows that arched as one at his unrestrained display of enthusiasm.

“Good morning!” he exclaimed joyfully, spreading both his arms like a skinny bird ready to fly. But he didn’t allow them the opportunity to form a reply. Before he could try, Porthos found his arms full of an overly-hyper sparkling-eyed little Gascon, who hugged him with such a force that the Musketeer was left almost out of breath.

“Oi! What happened to you!” Porthos inquired, exchanging a baffled glance with both his stunned brothers.

“Good news?” Aramis tried, widening his deep brown eyes as a dazzling smile blinded him just before two still-too-slender arms encircled his neck from behind, in a bone crushing hug that pretty much choked him.

 

By then, Athos’ eyebrows had long from disappeared under the brim of his hat. But, much like his comrades, he didn’t get the chance to ask their Gascon what had happened to make him that happy. As soon as he parted his lips to speak D’Artagnan slapped his back in a maybe-too-enthusiastic attempt to show him his affection, and suddenly all he could do was tense his muscles to avoid end up face first on his plate. _And the sun wasn’t even completely raised yet._

 

“Uhm… not that we aren’t glad to see you… uhm… so happy”, Porthos managed to stutter, trying his best to stifle a laugh at Athos’ disgruntled stare, “but can you tell us why you are almost bouncing, lad?”.

 

Finally, obviously satisfied at having _properly_ expressed his affection to his brothers, D’Artagnan sat, still smiling like a madman. And then he sighed, so deeply that Aramis briefly feared he would faint.

“Constance” the Gascon breathed, resting his cheek in his hand, big dreamy puppy-eyes sparkling like stars.

 

Porthos booming laugh probably awoke more than a previously blissfully asleep Musketeer…

“Ah, young love!” he teased, slapping his own hand on his brother’s shoulder with affection.

“Did you spend a pleasant evening, my dear friend?” Aramis grinned, leaning forward on his arms to give their Gascon his undivided attention. It was an amusing sight to see, a lovestruck D’Artagnan, that beaming he was, a contented smile still curling upward his mouth, and a slight blush on his really-too-gaunt cheeks.

 

“The best of my whole life” he nodded, blinding Aramis with another sun-bright smile, before releasing a second deep, toe-curling sigh. “I told her _I love you_ ” D’Artagnan purred, relishing the long, overwhelming thrill that passed through his lean but muscular frame.

“Awww… My teeth are going to hurt with all these sweet talks” Porthos laughed, shaking his head at his brother’s antics.

“And what did the fair Constance do, after your declaration of love?” Aramis asked, crossing his strong arms with a brilliant smile on his handsome face.

“She told me she loves me too” D’Artagnan practically exhaled, eliciting an eye roll from an amused Athos, who, despite his stoic facade, smiled knowingly. He remembered well enough what love felt like, even if he had decided long ago to never fell under its spell again. And although his heart was shattered to pieces, buried under gallons of cheap red wine and nightmares filled with bloodied daggers, he still longed for the spark that something so powerful could light into a man’s soul.

 

“Well, that’s good” Aramis grinned brightly, resting his hand on his little brother’s arm to squeeze it. “Did you kiss her?.

“Aramis!” D’Artagnan cried, blushing so fiercely that Porthos thought he could catch fire, so red he was from neck to forehead.

“Did you?” the Spaniard insisted, exchanging a grin with their amused brothers. Oh, how he loved to tease their Gascon! How could he let the chance pass?

But D’Artagnan was just too overjoyed to be embarrassed for long. It took him only a moment to exhale a hoarse “yes”.

 

This time, both Aramis and Porthos laughed, that dreamy expression on D’Artagnan’s face was priceless. He looked like he could burst at any moment, deep brown eyes glistening with happiness, and lips curled upward so widely that he probably felt pain. But it was obvious that he couldn’t stop smiling, he couldn’t even try, for his mind kept coming back to that wonderful, unforgettable night, and to Constance, who, for the first time, had given him all of herself.

“I can’t believe she loves me” the Gascon murmured, more to himself than to his brothers. “She is just so… _amazing_. And so beautiful. And brave”.

 

And then he grew serious, so much that Aramis, Athos, and Porthos were caught off guard. “How can she possibly love me? I’ve nothing to offer to her, really, I’m just a farmboy from Gascony with more dreams than coins in my pockets …without a home, without a certain future… and still… she loves me. Can you believe that?” he asked, lowering his eyes to look at his hands, fingers tracing absentmindedly the knots of the wooden table, swallowing to try and keep his sudden anxiety in check.

 

But then a warm hand raised his chin, and when he looked into his brothers’ faces he had to furrow his brow. For he met three obviously fond smiles.

 

“Of course, D’Artagnan” Aramis assured him, a note of protectiveness in his velvety voice, his grip tightening on his brother’s arm. “You’re a good man, loyal to fault, brave, and a good warrior. Why shouldn’t she love you? Mh?”.

 

But D’Artagnan just frowned more. Now that he came to think of that, he found it impossible to really believe that she could reciprocate his love…

“She’s just so gorgeous! You know her, she can hold her own in a fight, keep a clear head when she’s in troubles, and defend her beliefs as fiercely as any warrior while cooking a stew… am I deluding myself?” he whispered, abruptly tensing so much that Porthos felt the urge to add his own hand on his slim shoulders to console him, helpless in front of those big, tearful, heart-wrenchingly innocent brown orbs.

“Now, now whelp” he muttered, panicking a little as his voice draw his little brother’s attention, he wasn’t good at consoling people in tears, they made him feel small and incapable.

 

Luckily, and Athos had to admit it was one of his many gifts, some more annoying than others, Aramis knew _exactly_ what to say to soothe his protégé’s raising dispair.

“Calm yourself, D’Artagnan”, the Spaniard promptly reassured, moving his hand up and down their Gascon’s arm. “You don’t need to worry, do you? Constance told you she loves _you_ , and she would never lie to you. Don’t sell yourself so short, my friend, none of us, well, except our Comte, of course, have really any money to his name, do you think we would also be unworthy of the love of a fair maiden like Constance?”

“Of course not!” D’Artagnan all but shouted, straightening himself so quickly that he nearly fell from his seat on the bench, soulful brown irises blazing now with such a fire that Aramis was left speechless. “You’re the best Musketeers of the whole France, and the most honorable, loyal, and brave brothers I could ever hope to find!” the Gascon argued, so forcefully that Porthos had to bow his head a little to hide a blush, and even Athos regarded him with a fond stare. But then, D’Artagnan deflated, his back hunched again in sorrow, and he sighed dejectedly. “I’m not like you. I’d like to, and I hope that one day I’ll be able to match both your skills and your hearts, but right now-”

“Stop right there” Aramis interrupted him sternly, grabbing gently his chin to force him to meet his eyes. “Do you trust me, D’Artagnan? Do you trust us?”

“Of course!” the Gascon almost sputtered, so _dumb_ it was for him that dumb question. He’d trust those men with his life, did they really doubted that?

 

But Aramis just grinned widely. “Then believe me when I tell you that Constance is lucky to have you by her side, little brother”.

D’Artagnan blushed, but even if he felt both touched and embarrassed at the marksman’s praise – _Aramis, one of the three men he most admired in the world_ – he couldn’t smother the urge to search for Porthos’ and Athos’ eyes too, just to be sure that they really agreed with what he said. And he couldn’t help the small flash of surprise that burst in his chest when he realized that they were regarding him steadily, none of them contradicting their brother’s words.

 

So he grinned, wider than before, so broadly that his face could probably split in two, as he recognized their affection for him in those gazes. In Porthos’ chocolate deep brown orbs, looking at him with a bright amused twinkle, lips upward and the warm, comforting weight of his hand still on his shoulder. In Athos’ winter-cold irises, their light blue darkened by his affection for his young, reckless, but sometimes too endearing for his own good, protégé. And in Aramis’ eyes too, still fixed on his face, as if he knew that D’Artagnan needed to search the truth in their gazes to be able to believe he was worth of their devotion for him. And the young Gascon felt warm all over again, and honored, because he knew that they didn’t usually bestow their love so freely. “Thank you” he sighed with relief, lowering his gaze now that his cheeks were blushing brightly again. _God, how did I get so lucky? What did I do to deserve such wonderful brothers?_

 

“Come on, cheeky bugger, let’s train ‘efore you rub all this sweetness on us” Porthos grinned, taking pity on his brother awkwardness, patting his back one last time encouragingly before removing his hand and stretching his arms, ready to start a new day.

“I’m ready” D’Artagnan nodded gratefully, artfully pretending not to have noticed the exasperated look that both Athos and Aramis had turned to his breakfast plate, appeared who knows when under his lovestruck nose, and left completely untouched right where his brothers had placed it.

 

Aramis sighed but decided to let it go, raising from his seat to join his brothers. “Right, let me see your progress with the musket” he suggested, laughing wholeheartedly when D’Artagnan nodded eagerly before flanking him on their way to the shooting range and flinging a slim arm across his broad shoulders.

“Aren’t we cuddly today?” the Spaniard teased, even if his own arm encircled his little brother’s slender waist affectionately.

“I’m just grateful for your lessons, brothers” was D’Artagnan warm reply.

“Yeah, right, you keep lookin’ at us with those puppy eyes and you’ll make even Athos pet you like a kitten, whelp” Porthos grinned, swiftly avoiding their Lieutenant infamous stare that he immediately felt piercing at his back at his remark.

“Porthos’ right, D’Artagnan, you can’t strip the man of his dignity” Aramis laughed, completely unbothered himself by Athos’ narrowed-to-slits frosty orbs that, at that point, where openly threatening them, making him look more disgruntled than ever.

Something that amused Aramis to no end…

 

“Shut up, children” their elder grumbled, shooting one of his trademark glares to his suspiciously gasping protégé too for good measure.

“Yes sir” the threesome replied as one, just a second before bursting out laughing again, leaning on each other to avoid stumbling.

 

Of course, as soon as they regained their breath, much to Athos exasperation, D’Artagnan found it all the more difficult to try and focus on his task – reload and fire his musket repeatedly, while following Aramis’ instructions – because, reassured by his brothers’ words, ecstasy was again in command of his body. And Constance the only coherent thought in his mind.

 

And the harder he tried to concentrate - eyes trained on the bullseye of the target, arm straight, musket aligned with his shoulder, wrist relaxed, finger on the trigger – the more difficult it was to keep his mind on the task at hand. Because the smell of the gunpowder dancing in smoke’s spirals around his face remembered him of that first time he had taught Constance how to hold a musket, and the hardness of the steel and wood that his fingers were gripping evoked her luminous smile, her unadulterated mirth at learning something so adventurous as marksmanship.

 

And, as his body summoned those feelings, her sparkling blue eyes captured his mind again, bringing him back to those blissful hours spent in loving exploration of the shape of their bodies, under the watchful eyes of a clear, vigilant, moon.

 

_-*-*-_

 

 

_“Do you remember the first time you kissed me?”_

_Her voice was so soft, so tender, that D’Artagnan couldn’t answer her question right away. He felt so at peace right there, lying between those lavender scented sheets of the little room he rented after his arrival in Paris with her warm weight against his side, her silky red curls stroking his chest, her angelic face nestled in the crook of his neck._

_“How could I ever forget, mon Cherie? You slapped me so hard that I almost fell to the ground” he grinned, tilting his head to kiss her burgundy red lips._

_She laughed, a small, contented sound that reverberated through his bare chest, nuzzling his arm with her slightly flushed cheek._

_“You were beautiful in that pale yellow dress” he murmured lovingly, smiling at the memory, tightening his hold on her waist enough to draw her closer to him._

_“But you mistook me for a prostitute!” she protested, slapping his chest lightly with her small hand, promptly captured by D’Artagnan’s bigger one._

_He brought her palm to his lips, kissing fingertip after fingertip with such a tenderness that she couldn’t stifle a deep throaty moan. “I didn’t. I just thought that you looked even more stunning when you were angry” he admitted, laughing harder when she lifted her head in outrage._

_“Brute!” she huffed, sapphire blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “I think I will forbid you from kissing me again, monsieur, to punish you for your lack of manners”._

_D’Artagnan only grinned more, before rolling over her, frowning teasingly._

_“Oh really?” he challenged, relishing the softness of her bare skin against his naked body_

_“See if I won’t!” she retorted, her eyes widening as she tried to push him off of her with her small hands, only to end up pinned to the bed by her wrists._

_“May I ask you how you intend to stop me from kissing you, Constance?” D’Artagnan grinned, easily holding her down with his larger hands._

_“Unhand me!” she growled, but a laugh was already bubbling in her stomach, and she couldn’t really force her eyes to look stern. She had never dared to dream that she could experience this much happiness before, never. She was all too aware of how painful it was to fall when she let her mind free to wander too high. But D’Artagnan… well. He had changed everything. She had found herself daydreaming about him even before she realized that she was in love with him. First sight, no less. And now… now she just couldn’t believe that love tasted so good. That she was loved._

_Deeply, truly, completely._

_That D’Artagnan was in love with Constance, the small porcelain doll her husband often kept locked up in a modest city house with nothing better to do than cooking and sewing. That he admired her adventurous heart, her fierceness, her inner strength._

_And that was one of the many reasons why she fell in love with the young man with all her soul. Because he was the first one to look at her and see her. Not only her gook look, for she knew she was pretty, she wasn’t one of those vain women who pretended to be unaware of their attractiveness to scrape up a compliment or two._

_Her._

_Unruly curls, quick tongue, always too reddened cheeks, and a proud, passionate, loyal soul._

_“I will never, ever release you, mon amour. Never” D’Artagnan vowed, far too seriously for their private joke, looking at those summer sky irises so intensely that she felt another deep, toe-curling, heartbeat-quickening shiver run trough her overheated body. Right before his lips parted, claiming her mouth as his own._

 

_-*-*-_

 

 

 

“… D’Artagnan? Are you listening?”

“Oi whelp, he’s talking to you!”

D’Artagnan flinched abruptly as Porthos’ hand landed heavily on his shoulder, wrestling him back from his daydreaming.

“Uhm… what?” he stammered, blinking once, twice, to refocus on what was around him: the garrison’s courtyard, now much less empty than before, and his three older brothers, who were regarding him both sternly and amusedly.

“Am I boring you?” Aramis asked, not really offended by their youngest’s inattention since he knew all too well how love could entrap even the strongest of men. Like himself, for instance.

 

“Of-of course not, Aramis” their Gascon hastily replied, blushing furiously at being caught with his mind elsewhere. Especially since each of his brothers knew very well what was distracting him from his training…

 

“Well, since I seem unable to uphold your attention maybe we should move to hand to hand combat and see if Porthos will do better than me” the Spaniard suggested, eliciting a grin and a nod from their bigger brother. _Maybe something more… active would help the lad to focus._

 

Of course, it just wasn’t meant to be. Under the watchful gaze of both Athos and Aramis, D’Artagnan and Porthos faced each other, ready to start their fight. And much to the older Musketeers’ dismay, the fight was rather quick. Too quick, indeed.

 

Yes, D’Artagnan was surprisingly agile due to his slim frame, and thanks to his upbringings, and usually he was capable enough to dodge Porthos’ lounges, using what they had taught to him so far to stay on his feet even against such a formidable opponent. Today, though, his mind kept running elsewhere, and, all in all, it was just a matter of time before he would make a mistake.

Such as removing himself from Porthos’ fist trajectory not as swiftly as he should, for instance, only to receive said fist directly on his forehead. And since the Musketeer felt sure his brother would dodge, he hadn’t restrained himself, fairly knocking D’Artagnan out on the spot.

 

That’s why, delivered the aforementioned blow, Porthos’ mouth dropped open in horror, panic-filled dark brown eyes glued to his little brother’s slim form now sprawled unconscious on the hard ground.

“Christ- D’Artagnan!” the big Musketeer shouted, dropping to his knees to reach for him, Aramis already on their Gascon’s side checking for his pulse, and then sighing in relief as soon as he felt their youngster’s steady heartbeat under his gentle fingers.

“He’s unconscious but- no concussion” the Spaniard confirmed, lifting their brother’s eyelids to check his pupils.

“I-I’m sorry, I-I thought he would-” Porthos stammered, moving his arms ever so gently to raise him and lay him against his broad, muscular chest.

“We know, Porthos, calm yourself. D’Artagnan made a mistake” Athos firmly reassured his brother, even if his pale blue eyes betrayed his concern at D’Artagnan’s loss of consciousness.

“Athos is right, Porthos” Aramis added, focused on their young one but not oblivious to his brother’s guilt streaked voice. “He should have paid more attention, I’m sure that when he’ll wake up he’ll tell you the same”.

 

Porthos grunted, but his eyes were still clouded when Aramis nodded his assent for him to lift D’Artagnan from the ground. Carefully his strong arms moved to support their Gascon’s back and knees, before he moved, cradling him against his chest.

“Bring him to my room” the Spaniard instructed, following Porthos to make sure that D’Artagnan’s head rested comfortably against the bigger man's shoulder.

“I’ll bring you fresh water” Athos nodded, knowing what their medic would need from experience.

“Thank you” Aramis replied, before focusing solely on their little troublemaker of a brother, worried by his prolonged unconsciousness.

 

Something that he wasn’t the only one to notice, since, as soon as he placed D’Artagnan on Aramis’ bed, Porthos’ brow furrowed in concern.

“Why is ‘e still out cold?”

“He should recover his senses at any moment now” Aramis muttered, pressing his palm flat on their brother’s forehead, his handsome face strained in anxiety and his watchful eyes trained on the youngster, the one who, somehow, in such a short time had succeeded where many before him had failed. In conquering the Inseparable’s hearts.

 

“How is he”

Athos too joined them a moment later, his strong arms carrying a bucket full of cold water unwaveringly even if his sharp crystal blue eyes located D’Artagnan immediately, clouding with worry. “He is still unconscious” he frowned, accidentally mimicking Porthos’ words. This time, however, Aramis didn’t get the chance to reply. A slight moan, in fact, catalyzed the three Musketeers’ attention to the small medic’s bed, propped against the bare, white wall of his room, temporarily occupied by the young Gascon. And it was with a surge of relief that they saw his brown eyes, shadowed by confusion and probably the pain, open, a sign that he was finally recovering from the blow.

 

“D’Artagnan, can you hear me? Look at me if you can” Aramis immediately called, his hands moving to frame their little brother’s face.

“…r’mis” the youngster slurred slightly, blinking slowly as if he couldn’t remember what had happened to him. A worrisome thought, for the Spaniard, who frowned more, bending his back to examine the boy’s irises looking for symptoms.

“Concussion?” Porthos groaned ashamed, sitting heavily on a chair to rest is face in his hands, dreading the answer.

“No” Aramis immediately reassured him, shaking is head in his haste to save his brother from his guilt. “He is just a bit dazed, right, D’Artagnan?”

“P’thos… m’fine” their Gascon replied without missing a beat, even if it was obvious that he hadn’t really grasped the full meaning of their words, much to Aramis’ amusement.

“Here, have some water” Athos offered, lips twitching at D’Artagnan eagerness to ease their brother’s discomfort. That was one the things he admired in him: his readiness to please, to help, to bring comfort, sometimes even if he didn’t understand the situation, or he couldn’t, for as much as they loved him as a brother he had joined them a few months ago, and he didn’t know a lot about their difficult pasts, their nightmares, their shadows. Still, he tried his best, because that’s how he loved. That’s how he cared. That’s how he lived. _With all his heart._

 

And Porthos too had to grin gratefully at his brother words, unable to stop his hand to ruffle his hair affectionately.

“Yeah, I can see that, lad” he chuckled, rolling his eyes at Aramis’ and Athos’ knowing glance.

“Fortunately, you have a hard head, D’Artagnan” Aramis grinned, grabbing him under his arms to help him sit up, and then holding him steady as a bout of dizziness made him tremble. “Better?” he asked as soon as dark brown eyes opened to look at him, smiling in sympathy when D'Artagnan nodded just to wince and moan, probably because of the pain that the movement caused to his head.

 

“I’m… s’rry” their Gascon slurred weakly, lifting a hand to his forehead, promptly batted away by the Spaniard’s bigger one, to stop him from bothering the bruise already forming on his temple. “I should…’ave paid more… attention”.

“Indeed” Athos nodded sternly, only to visibly flinch as soon as two big puppy eyes turned on him pinning him with a disarmingly pitiful look. _Darn Gascon._

 

“Now, now” Aramis grinned, clearing his throat in an undisguised attempt to stifle a laugh “what counts now is that you feel better, D’Artagnan”.

“I do!” the youngster promptly assured, blinking owlishly to clear his blurred vision.

“I doubt it, whelp, that was a nasty blow” Porthos grumbled, cursing his own carelessness for the umpteenth time.

“Stop… worryin’… P’thos, ‘m fine” D’Artagnan insisted, accepting gratefully the water Aramis offered him.

“Slowly, little brother” the Spaniard admonished, resting his hand on his brother’s trembling one to help him take a sip.

 

“I’ve… never felt like that… before” D’Artagnan breathed, as soon as he was resting comfortably with his back propped against a couple of well-placed pillows, trying to explain his behavior, his error, lest they mistook it for incompetence. He knew, now, that they meant it when they called him little brother, something for which he felt so very grateful that often, just thinking about that, he felt his heart jump directly in his throat. But they were also the Inseparables, the King’s best Musketeers, and their opinion mattered to him more than anything else. He was afraid to disappoint them, he was afraid that one day they could find him unworthy of their expectations, less talented than they had initially believed, and that they, therefore, realized that investing so much time, sweat and energy in his training had been a waste. An error. A _regret_. So he had to make them understand the depth of his feelings for Constance by baring his soul, showing them his heart. It was the only way, for them, to absolve him for his lapse of concentration.

 

Hey should have known that they already understood. That they knew. Not only because each end every one of them had had their own struggle with love, but for that soul deep connection that had linked them since their first encounter, when his father’s blood was still fresh on his hands and Athos’ life was at stake. Righ there, right then, that bond had tied them together.

 

So tightly that they couldn't remember anymore a time when they were a trio instead of a quartet, when a little beardless brother wasn’t there to pour more wine in their cups, begging them to retell that story about the noblewoman who had developed a crush on Aramis so strong that she had ultimately kidnapped him, forcing Athos and Porthos to go and save him.

 

When they didn’t have to sleep close to each other during those nights when the sky was a storm and the rain fell in buckets, to chase away bloodied nightmares of honest men killed inside a small Inn, just to spend the following days training and training, from dawn to dusk to help a young, wet behind the ears Gascon, to overcome his grief, still so strong after barely a few months.

When they didn’t know – or couldn’t remember anymore – how sweet it was to look out for a little brother, even if he was a reckless, impetuous, sometimes ill-tempered troublesome of a boy, who could fight as fiercely as a lion to defend their honor and then fall asleep with his head on their shoulders, hand fisted in their shirts that showed his unyielding trust in his brothers.

 

“We know, D’Artagnan, calm yourself” Aramis assured, moving to grasp lightly his hand, lips curled in a soft, reassuring smile. “But you’re going to be a Musketeer soon, so you’ll have to learn what we’re trying to teach you: head over heart”.

“I know” their youngster nodded as strongly as he could, swallowing a hint of remorse. “I’ll try harder”.

Athos nodded, relaxing his shoulders. “Rest now, you’ll feel better once you’ve slept”.

 

“I’m not tired”.

 

Porthos groaned, trying, and failing, to look stern. “That was an order, whelp!”.

“But I feel fine, Porthos, I swear!” their Gascon immediately protested, pouting when a large hand stopped him from leaving his bed.

“D’Artagnan do not force me to become more persuasive” Athos sighed, lips twitching but eyes stern

The youngster huffed, parting his lips to form a retort, obviously unhappy. But then his eyes lingered on his mentor’s face, and Aramis grinned widely because, from the look that crossed those brown orbs, their young one probably remembered what their Lieutenant _meant_ by saying ‘persuasive’. Therefore, he wasn’t surprised when D’Artagnan withdrew, looking for all it’s worth like an ill-tempered five-year-old scolded by his father.

 

“Fine” he growled, crossing his arms and jutting his chin in outrage.

Of course, Porthos was chuckling at the sight, but _really_ , how could a man resist to that childish pout?

 

“Stop laughing Porthos, it’s not funny!”

“Rest, D’Artagnan!”

“But Porthos is teasing me, Aramis!”

“Porthos please” was the sharpshooter’s plea, accompanied by an amused eye roll

“Sorry Aramis” the man laughed out loud, especially since an aggravated Athos barked a very loud “Children!”

“Ok, ok” the bigger of the foursome relented, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Want me to hold y'ar hand?”.

 

“ _Porthos!_ ” D’Artagnan so-not-whined, turning his neck so abruptly that his sight clouded and his head protested sorely, eliciting an unsuppressed moan from his lips

“Enough!” Athos barked again, rolling his own eyes and moving to sit beside D’Artagnan to _try_ and keep him still. “Close your eyes and rest, D’Artagnan. Now” he commanded, shooting a stern glare to both his brothers for good measure since they were still trying to stop chuckling without success. “Shut up you two… I should gag you all” he muttered, hiding a twitch of his lips.

 

“Yes sir!” the threesome replied, eliciting another stare from the older Musketeer. Who grunted when, despite their teasing, they grew finally quiet.

_Well… for a minute._

 

“So… you didn’t tell us how you declared your love to our fair Constance”.

“ _Aramis!_ ”.


	11. Miserable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miserable. That’s what he was. How he felt.   
> And he didn’t know, D'Artagnan, if he could ever undo the wrong he had inadvertently committed. Right now, his pauldron, so proudly bound to his shoulder by an (almost) smiling Athos just a few days before, weighted like a boulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends, happy Sunday! Here we are with another chapter of this collection, M for Miserable. This one is a bit angsty, but I can't help it, I so love to explore feelings and memories, so I had to write it as it came to my mind, and I hope you'll enjoy it! Before leaving you to read this new chapter, though, I'd like to thank all those who left reviews and kudos, and those who took their time to read Loved, you're the best, I can't help but feel awed every single time at your support. You're the best! See you soon with the next chapter, I've still much to share, so, please, stay tuned and let me know what do you think about this one! Thank you guys!!!

_“To love or have loved, that is enough.  
_ _Ask nothing further.  
_ _There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life”._  
(V. Hugo)

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he was a little child that game had particularly fascinated him.

There was a long pole buried in the hard packed ground, right in the middle of the village’s square, in Lupiac, Gascony. It was always decorated with vividly colored ribbons, punctually every second Sunday of May, long, soft strips of fabric that slid from the high top of the wooden shaft to the earth, like flowers' petals fallen from their stem, enlightened by the joyous rays of an early summer’s sun. The children of the village grabbed them, one for each, and laughing and whooping they cheerfully danced around the pole, singing at the top of their voices old popular songs while the adults, who to play they were maybe no longer able, watched them benevolently, clapping occasionally their hands.

 

The celebrations always began at sunset, and bathed in the ruby light of the early evening sun, those colourful ribbons looked almost alive as they danced by the hands of the children, as if it was the wind alone to move them, as if they were gifted with their own free will, their own soul, a conscience.

 

D'Artagnan always attended the game, the dance, it was one of those few precious moments when he had the chance of savoring the taste of being a child, for the life at the farm with his father demanded him, more often than not, to carry out the work of a man. He played, clutching securely his ribbon in his little fist, _green, it was always green_ , and he ran and sang until his voice grew hoarse in his throat, and his face, his olive skin, like a true Gascon, was soaked with sweat.

 

Sometimes, though, ribbons tangled, knotted together, muddled up and unwind them was quite impossible. And some other times they just tore, and the game ended prematurely, leaving a bitter taste of defeat coating the little dancers' lips.

 

Quite the same tang D’Artagnan felt in his mouth now, actually. Acrid, sour, powerful enough to anesthetize even the sweetness of the wine that filled his wooden cup, brought to his lips by an absent hand while his mind was free to wander away, far, to an almost forgotten past and to one more forthcoming, both filled with melancholy.

 

_Miserable_.

That’s how he felt.

Miserable.

Because he had _betrayed_.

 

Unknowingly, unintentionally, inadvertently.

But he had betrayed.

Not his Country, his King, or his Homeland.

No. Worse. _His brothers._

 

Those for whom he’d die. Those to whom he’d gladly give his life, with no regrets.

He had betrayed.

And there was nothing that could hurt more, D'Artagnan was sure about it, than _that_.

Than the look in Athos’ eyes, devoid of his usual impassivity, overshadowed by grief.

Than Aramis’ dark expression, not at all friendly, or warm, as usual, but cold and sharp as a knife in the winter light.

Than the tight set of Porthos’ lips, _good, big Porthos_ , whose hands were able to kill but also to console with such a tenderness that sometimes threatened to bring D'Artagnan to tears. And who had hit him so hard that now is cheekbone wept blood, staining, slowly but steadily, the white neck of his shirt.

 

Nothing could hurt more than _that_.

 

 

He had always been careful, D'Artagnan, not to let his ribbon tangle when he played. Once it happened as he was a child, he was seven and his family was already halved by his mother’s death. His father had by then lost his smile in favor of mourning, night and day, an endless gloom filled with pain, and as soon as the cloth ripped the bitterness had almost swallowed the boy whole. Because he had wanted to play so much, that day of May, D'Artagnan, and instead, just two laps around the wooden pole later his green ribbon got caught, stuck in a splinter of wood along with two other strips of cloth, a red one and a blue one, and then it slipped to the ground like a blade of grass torn from a lawn, useless in his hands.

He had _cried_.

Because that ribbon, so harmless, reminded him of his mother’s dark hazel eyes, empty and lifeless as she laid on her bed, prematurely taken from her family by a brief but consuming illness. So he wept, big salty tears that had immediately soaked his small lips, bitter, sickening, raw. They tasted like _defeat_.

 

His father had held him by his small hand back then, and explained that sometimes life is hard. That happiness never lasts forever, and that clouds could unexpectedly hide the sun like during a stormy day, casting shadows over hearts and souls, even those belonging to good people, who eat vegetables at dinner without complaints, and went to church every Sunday.

That even the pure of heart could be affected by life sometimes and be deprived of their loved ones before they had the opportunity to grow up, to love them, to show them how much they meant to them. And that is unfair, yes, but we must learn to accept. To keep living. And to fight against that same life that could prove so cruel.

 

He was just a seven years old small lad at the time, D'Artagnan. But he understood. He realized that his green broken ribbon maybe resembled a little his young life, torn, but somehow mendable.

 

And yet, he had promised himself, then and there, that he would never have to bear that taste in his mouth again.

 

He was wrong.

 

It happened, more than once, of course.

 

He knew that he had felt that overwhelming _bitterness_ when his mother died, her soulful hazel eyes dimming and dimming until there was no more light left in them. She had loved him so fiercely, so thoroughly, that a hole opened in his chest so deep, dark, all-encompassing, when she left them, that he thought he could never be whole again.

 

But then it happened also when his beloved older brother disappeared, for example, few months after his mother’s death, and that episode with his green ribbon. He still remembered that one night, it was January and the air was so cold he could see the water freezing in the pond behind his farm. His father returned home that the moon was high in a crystal clear blue sky, his dark eyes shadowed by pain, and D’Artagnan had cried when the man told him that André couldn’t be found, but there was a shoe left near the river, where they usually went to play. And young D’Artagnan almost felt sick: that day he should have gone with his older brother, but he had caught a cold just a couple’ days before, and father had forbidden him to go out, so he had to stay at home. He had felt his bile rising in his throat again and again, then, as he remembered how his brother gently teased him, only to disappear hours later. Could he have saved him if he had been with him? D'Artagnan felt that bitterness again, only stronger, awful, at that unanswered question, and he wasn't able to utter a single word for _months_ after that.

 

And later, more recently, the bitterness returned when his beloved father was killed, dying in his arms like a candle blown out by a gust of wind. And he, D’Artagnan, a boy forced by life into a premature adulthood, was left there, _alone_ , knees deep in the mud under the pouring rain, shouting his father’s name until he couldn’t shout anymore. Frozen by grief, and swearing brokenly again and again to a dead man that, _by God's name_ , he would have justice, revenge, the two terms at the time mixed up with each other and he couldn't remember anymore what they meant.

Alone to understand, while Alexandre D’Artagnan’s warm and bleeding body was getting cold in his grasp, that his life as he knew it was no more. That there was a dark abyss at his feet, scary because it tasted of loneliness, uncertainty, and even death.

 

But he felt his mouth go dry, and then bitter, as well, when his Captain told him that Labarge had destroyed his farm, his last bond with his father, his mother, his brother. His sanctuary, where a good part of his memories were stored, tokens of his lost family who he still loved with all his heart. And also, when Constance turned her back to their future together, dismissing their love as if it mattered nothing, her fears stronger than his devotion, his loyalty, his everything.

 

Defeating Labarge and gaining his commission had, in some way, chased away that hated, but long known, bitterness, and for one moment, just the blink of an eye, too short to be really relished, D’Artagnan had almost savored the sweet flavor of victory. It was there, he brushed it with his fingertips, it soaked his clothes, drenched with blood and sweat, it shined in his brothers’ eyes. Those of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, so obviously, unabashedly proud of him that he cried as he clasped tightly, as tight as he could, their hands, their arms, their backs, to share with them one of the most amazing days of his young life. But even then there was a shadow besieging him. A hint of that darn bitterness that coated annoyingly his tongue. That slowed the hand with wich he brought his wine to his mouth that same evening, when he celebrated his pauldron with his brothers.

Constance had rejected him.

His farm was ashes.

He couldn’t feel the beat of his heart anymore.

And as he smiled, and laughed, and joked, surrounded by those men he loved like his own blood, he could still feel the bile rising in his chest. Acrid, bitter, _nauseating_.

 

But even then, deprived of his past and his love, that bitterness was nothing compared to what he felt _now_. Breathless, boneless, burning and freezing as if he was ravaged by a raging fever.

Nothing, _nothing_ tasted like betrayal.

Like the treason he committed against his brothers.

 

_Miserable_. That’s what he was. How he felt.

 

And he didn’t know, D'Artagnan, if he could ever undo the wrong he had inadvertently committed. Right now, his pauldron, so proudly bound to his shoulder by an (almost) smiling Athos just a few days before, weighted like a boulder.

 

To think that it all began with just a glass of wine at the apartments of the former Comte de la Fére…

 

Just a few hours earlier, with an overpowering sense of relief. With an encouraging smile exchanged with his mentor, ready, finally, to reveal his past to his closest friends, fellow soldiers, brothers.

 

Five years later, finally, Athos felt ready.

 

He would tell them of her, Milady, his former wife, the murderess. The woman who now served the Cardinal. What a horrible surprise. What a sick twist of fate.

 

_Athos’ eyes were clouded that evening, sunset bathing his modest apartments in fire and gold, when he finally invited D’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis to talk and have some wine._

_Well, a lot of wine._

_Enough wine to drown himself and chase away those demons’ claws that for a long time he felt cutting at his blackened, silent heart, filled with death and defeat._

_The pale blue of his irises was almost midnight dark, the shade of the sky a minute before dusk, and deep, like a well dug into the ground to hide in its obscure depths God knows what, maybe a monster, the Hell, or maybe just the silver face of the moon._

_D'Artagnan knew the misty and bloodied battlefield that was Athos’ soul, and instinctively put a restraining hand on his shoulder. To ground him, to remind him that he was there. A small gesture, really, but the older Musketeer had taken it for what it was, and for a brief moment the light blue of his eyes had become clearer, more peaceful, almost serene._

_But then Aramis and Porthos had settled around the small wooden table placed under one of the windows of the barely furnished room, and again the night replaced the day in the former Comte’s irises._

_“Madame de la Chapelle is my wife” Athos’ began, his tone practical, inflexible, for he was not a man to beat around the bushes. His stare was lost on his own strong, calloused hand, curled around a full bottle of red wine, but his lips betrayed a gut wrenching pain, coated with that bitter taste that D'Artagnan knew so well. The broken ribbon._

_“At the time, when I married her with, she was going under the name of Anne de Breuil, a young woman that I saved from a gang of bandits on the doorstep of my estate, and that I welcomed into my house, immediately captured by her beauty. I loved her”, Athos’ exhaled, closing his eyes for a long moment and bowing slightly, as if he was trying to nurse a sword wound straight through his chest._

_But then his voice hoarsened, as if his mouth, now, was filled with blood._

_“I was deceived. She was a thief, a murderess, she had concealed her past from me to induce me to ask for her hand”, he admitted, unaware of how deeply Aramis’ eyes warmed with compassion at his brother’s suffering, and how suddenly Porthos’ orbs darkened with ill-concealed anger at the thought of the pain caused by a woman to his brother._

_Then the Lieutenant’s mouth shut tightly, like he was trying to prevent from being sick, and the deep blanket of silence that descended upon them was almost overwhelming. D’Artagnan was still clasping Athos’ shoulder but it laid forgotten in the folds of the Musketeer's white linen shirt, for the Gascon’s body was so tense with rage that he could barely feel anything else. And still, he knew that the worst had yet to come._

_Athos took a deep breath, and absent-mindedly the youngest of the Musketeers wished to be able to alleviate that battered soul he loved so. If only for just one brief moment. If only to get the chance to know the man Athos was back then, when he was happy, in love, when he was able to breathe without shadows and regrets trying to suffocate him._

_“My younger brother, Thomas, he discovered the truth, and resolved to inform me. But he made a fatal mistake. He confronted her alone, and she stabbed him to death”_

_Aramis uttered a strangled sound at that revelation, dark irises overshadowing with dismay, and his heart became silent, understanding, hearing, touching, even, the deep visceral sorrow that, as a thick chain, imprisoned his brother’s soul. And then his evermore dashing brown orbs closed for a long moment as his grief for Athos' past settled in the pit of his stomach, startled by the reason behind all those years drowned in a glass of wine after another, waiting for an unconsciousness unable to free him from the nightmares that surely trapped him under cover of darkness._

_“My God” Porthos whispered, exchanging a wild, horrified look with a solemn D'Artagnan, whose lips were tight in a thin line, that hearing the story a second time didn’t make it any less painful._

_“I had no choice” Athos gasped, as if, found the courage to start the story, he could no longer stop until its dramatic conclusion, hunted eyes, lips taut, throat tight in remorse, regret and acid. Pure acid. “I had to apply the law. I had to sentence her to death. I could not do otherwise” he repeated, if to convince himself or his brothers, he didn’t know anymore._

_“She was a murderess” D'Artagnan stated quickly, feeling the crushing need to absolve his mentor, to hold out a hand for Athos to grasp, his body involuntarily stretching out to reach the older man, moving so close to him that his knee pressed hard against the Musketeer’s leg._

_“Of course you had to”, Aramis hastily nodded too, trying with all his might to swallow as fast as he could his own grief at Athos’ utterly imploring voice to console his suffering brother, his body leaning so close to the Lieutenant that the wood of the table was pushing uncomfortably against his broad chest. Not that he noticed that. “You had no choice”._

_“You did what you had to, brother”, was Porthos’ soft reply. Soft, but heartfelt._

_Athos looked up abruptly, he almost couldn't believe that they pronounced those words. And for a moment the air that penetrated his lungs tasted as sweet as a spoonful of honey. Because in the end D'Artagnan had been right. There was no blame in Aramis’ and Porthos’ faces, no contempt. No, they were regarding him as always, as a leader and a brother, with confidence. With love. Futile were his fears of losing their respect, their affection, a bond that he cherished as the most precious of gifts. They understood, and suffered with him._

_But then the bitterness was back, and again he felt crushed by the weight of the world._

_“The day she was hanged ... I left. I could not watch her die. An error on my part. I failed” he added, his eyes a thick wall of ice beyond which remorse was at war with a wrenching sense of failure, and the pain of having lost the woman he loved more than his life. “She seduced Remi, a friend of mine, she convinced him to save her, and she ran away. She is an agent for the Cardinal, now”._

_“It was not your fault, Athos” Aramis repeated fiercely, reaching out to grasp his Lieutenant’s hand, pale-faced and lips stretched in empathy._

_“Aye, you couldn’t ‘now” Porthos nodded sagely, his eyes two burning braziers glowing with protectiveness, a shade darker than the sky of a moonless midnight._

_“Of course not, Athos, she tore your heart out, she deprived you of your own blood, and how could you have imagined what she would become?” D'Artagnan added quickly, his hand inadvertently gripping Athos’ shoulder so tight that, by now, if he wasn’t imprisoned by the snares of his past, perhaps the Lieutenant would have felt pain. But the reality was that his brothers’ absolution, again and again, so ready, so encompassing, was a balm for his tortured soul, a balm he had never dared to hope for, Olivier d'Athos, Comte de La Fére._

_For the first time in so many years, he felt like he was able to breathe again. An alien feeling to him, almost forgotten, but oh, so sweet. Athos allowed himself the luxury to savor it for a moment, his eyes half closing, vulnerable, before the seasoned soldier in him brought him sharply back to reality. Filling his lungs with guilt again, for the umpteenth time._

_“There's the Cardinal’s hand behind the attempt on the Queen’s life” he stated, his voice unwavering again._

_“And behind the plot against Ninon De Larroque” Porthos nodded, his voice heavy and serious in quiet of the room._

_“How can you be so sure?” D'Artagnan asked, frowning, his fingers loosening a little their hold on Athos’ shoulder as his eyes searched Aramis’ tense face, hands spinning distractedly a goblet of wine, then Porthos’, still thunderous, and lastly Athos’, split between anger, remorse and a fierce determination._

_The older Musketeer didn’t answer immediately. Rather, he rose from the table, his boots the only source of noise inside the small room lit by candles. He returned a minute later with a wooden box in his hands, locked close by a broken golden hook._

_It looked innocent enough, and D’Artagnan’s frown deepened._

_But then Athos opened it._

_And the world's collapsed on him._

_Because he recognized them immediately, the forget-me-nots._

_And suddenly, everything made sense._

_There was no need for Athos to explain anything, now. As soon as D’Artagnan saw the little bunch of cerulean flowers sewn to the lining of the box his mind provided him the missing information and for a long, eternal heartbeat, his body paralyzed._

_He became senseless. He couldn't hear, touch, smell, he couldn't even see, if not for that patch of indigo propped ominously on a cream-colored fabric. He could not feel anything. Anything but his sense of taste. He didn’t loose that. And his mouth filled immediately with that despised bitterness._

_It could not be._

_Dear God, it couldn’t be._

_But the confirmation he dreaded, solemn as a priest's voice during a funeral day, arrived with the next breath he took._

_“Forget-me-nots are her signature. This box was found in Gallagher’s saddlebag. Now she calls herself Milady De Winter, but there is no doubt that my wife is the Cardinal’s spy”._

_Athos then probably said something else, and vaguely, far away as if he was suddenly underwater, D'Artagnan heard Aramis’ voice too. And then Porthos’, grave, too solemn, almost._

_But he could understand nothing anymore._

_He paled. Abruptly. So much that in the space of a heartbeat he lost every note of color on his face._

_And he swallowed, once, twice, three times, quickly, before he felt his stomach jump forcefully, and he had to swallow again to keep from throwing up._

_Milady de Winter._

_Athos’ wife._

_Athos’_ murderous _wife._

 

_He had slept with_ Athos’ _wife._

 

_A warm, strong hand on his shoulder roused him abruptly, and only then D’Artagnan realized that he was on his feet now, and he was shivering. No. He was shaking._

_“D'Artagnan! Answer me!”_

_“I'm afraid he’s going to pass out Aramis!”_

_“Oi whelp! You hear us?”_

_Yes, but he couldn’t… breathe. He backed one, two steps, his dark irises that feverishly, frightened, guiltily looked for Athos’, his brother, his mentor, so confused, alarmed, trying to understand why suddenly their Gascon was in such conditions._

_But he couldn’t._

_Not yet._

_“Sorry” D’Artagnan found himself stammering, pleading, desperate, his throat working hard to ward off nausea and pain. “I'm sorry Athos, I-I didn’t know I swear ... My God, I didn’t know”._

_“What, D'Artagnan” the Lieutenant immediately asked, stepping forward to reach him with his hands slightly raised, as if his protégé was suddenly a wild animal to tame._

_The moments that followed, D’Artagnan really wished he could forget them._

_With all his heart._

_“The .. the woman I met, before arriving in Paris ... I had no idea she was your wife, Athos, you-you have to believe me ... I was ...”._

_The way Athos’ irises widened in understanding silenced him. And for a minute D'Artagnan feared he would faint._

_Come to think of it, he really wanted to pass out._

_If only to forget the way Athos looked at him._

_Dismayed._

_Destroyed._

_Shocked._

_“You've slept with his wife?” a stunned Porthos growled, his voice so rough, and so abrupt, that D’Artagnan started sharply, his terrified orbs now looking ashamedly to the second of his brothers._

_“Dear God" Aramis murmured breathlessly, and D’Artagnan was sure he had never seen the usually confident marksman look so horrified. At leas until then. Right now his habitually jovial, bright, fraternal irises were wide, and as he stared at him, they widened even more, if at all possible. “She is the same woman who gave you the money to participate in the competition, isn’t she? And your patroness!”_

_D’Artagnan really, really didn’t want to nod at that point. Not when Athos was looking at him motionless as a statue, and Porthos… his eyes were so furious, so overflowed with bitterness, that he felt his chest shudder. But he couldn’t lie. He wouldn’t lie. For no reason._

_So he did it. He nodded. And he felt the bile rise in his throat._

_“She… looked for me” he forced himself to continue, despite how violently he was shaking now, as if his body was trapped in a coffin made of ice. “That night, she killed those guards ... as I was going back to Vadim. She told me that if I were to choose the Musketeers, oblivion would await me. Then she scared Constance ... and she offered me the money for the competition. But after that I kept my distance from her, and I have not seen her since…. Athos I swear!” D’Artagnan all but begged, reaching towards his mentor, still paralyzed, his face now tilted to the ground._

_But he was barely able to take a step._

_Then ..._

_“Don’t you dare to come any closer to him!”_

_It was a roar, and then for a moment the pain was mind-numbing._

_D'Artagnan found himself lying on the ground, flat on his back, his body throbbing from the impact with the floor, but no more than his face, punched squarely by Porthos._

_Shock filled him, and D’Artagnan’s eyes watered as he raised his face to look at his bigger brother. But what he saw then… The Musketeer was towering over him with dark orbs of a beast fueled by anger, his stance fiercely protective as he shielded Athos from the Gascon with all his powerful figure. Aramis, on his part, had moved to stand beside their Lieutenant, and D’Artagnan felt a pang of hurt as he realized that there was no forgiveness in his eyes too. Only confusion, grief, and a hint of accusation, painful, so painful to witness._

_“Go away”_

_D'Artagnan shuddered at Porthos' second growl, his lean body frozen, that numb he felt. What did he do? How could he not have realized that the woman in red and Athos’ murderous wife were the same person? How could have he been so blind, so stupid?_

_He scrambled to his feet mechanically, then, suddenly unable to stand for a second longer the heavy atmosphere that saturated the small, but usually friendly, room. He got up and left Athos’ apartments mumbling apologies, incomprehensible, frantic words, punctuated by the hammering pain in his cheekbone, that now, slowly, wept blood._

_It was the cool night air that brought upon him the enormity of what had happened. The anger, the contempt and the gut wrenching dismay he found in his brothers’ eyes for his vile actions._

Wine.

He needed wine to forget.

To erase the bitterness that already choked his throat.

He felt like a monster. Vile. Despicable. Worse, a _traitor_.

A small part of him, _unheeded at the present_ , knew that, in good conscience, he could never have imagined that one day he would meet the woman’s husband. The one he swore to kill, now that he came to think of that. And that her husband would become a friend, then a brother, then one of the axes around which revolved his life. _The post to which it was tied his green ribbon._

 

But he could not forgive himself.

No.

_Absolutely not._

 

A man like Athos, of is courage, his honor, with his inexhaustible strength and his immense value, and goodness, too, despite the shadows that still gripped his life, should never have to wear on his face such a shocked, dismayed expression. Such impotence.

And it was _D'Artagnan_ that had forced that expression on him.

A fault for which perhaps he'd never be able to forgive himself.

 

And that’s why he was drinking his weight in wine now, swallowing against his will that bitterness, and acid too. He drank to blur those memories, to dilute that taste on his tongue, to numb his heart, looking for a place dark enough to swallow everything else.

 

A _worm_.

He was a small, filthy, _miserable_ worm.

 

The disarming certainty of having lost everything, everything he had left dear in this world, his brothers, _his adoptive family_ , even his place among the Musketeers, hit him in waves. And when the tide retreated so that the waves could regain strength and hit him again, and again, with increasing violence, the void filled with Athos’ face. With his expression. His chin tilted to the floor, as if he was the one ashamed of himself. So shocked, devastated, almost frightened. So inappropriate that look was on his face, maybe distant and stoic, but able to illuminate with a warm, reassuring and protective light in a blink. So... heartbreaking. Utterly, totally _heartbreaking_.

 

So he was aware, D'Artagnan, somewhere in his heart, that he was not really to blame. He couldn’t have known, back then. But he was equally conscious that none of that mattered anymore. Because if Athos didn’t forgive him, he’d never, _ever_ forgave himself. Never forget that darn, unconscious, betrayal.

 

The wine seemed the only solution.

Fill the cup.

Swallow.

Empty the cup.

His throat was burning.

The wine was nauseating.

Hot, dense, viscous as _blood_.

 

But his hands apparently had a will of their own. Clutching the worn cup like that day many years ago they had gripped a broken green ribbon. Firmly. Unable to let go.

 

He lost track of time.

And space.

He saw only bottles on his table, empty, cold, motionless. Lined up one after another, like shiny little soldiers.

He just kept piling them up, as if hoping to find absolution for his sins on the bottom of one of them.

 

The hot grip on his shoulder, firm but gentle at the same time, who knows how many cups later, was so unexpected, so unforeseen that the newly commissioned Musketeer gasped, flinching so abruptly that his last cup slipped from his fingers, spilling wine in a red velvet puddle on the table.

But his mind was too intoxicated to do anything else besides follow with his eyes the vermilion liquid as it stained the wooden surface, invading each node, ripple, crack left in the material by the time. Until it spilled to the ground. A drop, then a small stream that dribbled darkly to the floor, disappearing into the dirt.

 

“D'Artagnan”

 

The Gascon turned so fast that his eyes lost their focus, and for a moment he felt faint.

Again.

A firm grip held him, preventing him from meeting the table face first.

 

But his heart was pounding in his throat now, and he paid no mind to his near fall, for it was a physical effort to focus on the voice.

Was he dreaming?

Was it a cruel game of his mind?

The projection of a wish he so hoped to be true?

 

_Athos_.

 

“D'Artagnan. Can you hear me?”

 

Long chocolate eyelashes flickered, and wondering when he had closed his eyes the young Gascon opened them again, focusing briefly on the beams that outlined the ceiling of the tavern. But then the arm that encircled his back tightened its grip and he found himself lifted until he regained a sitting position.

 

_Athos._

 

Athos was crouched before him, looking at him with obvious concern.

 

“Athos” D’Artagnan repeated, his voice soft like a prayer, a plea to God, a request for forgiveness. Like the rhymes of a spell, able to turn back time to that cursed night a few months ago, when his life had all but collapsed on him and he had sought refuge in the arms of a murderess.

 

“D'Artagnan, calm down”

 

Was he really there in front of him? Athos? _His brother?_

 

“I'm here”.

 

D'Artagnan blinked once, twice, three times, defeating the brain fuzzing fog that mashed everything into a patch of color that smelled of wine, sweat, and dirt.

 

And there they were, those pale blue eyes.

There it was the fierce face of a soldier, a commander, a son of the nobility.

That anchor that kept him nailed to the ground, even when gravity had suddenly disappeared from his life, and darkness had threatened to suck him into a vortex of grief.

 

“D'Artagnan, I know that-”

 

Athos never had the chance to finish his sentence.

 

One moment his hands held a pup of a Gascon obviously shattered by grief, sorrow and oh so deep remorse. The next, his arms were filled with said pup, sobbing, _God_ , as a little child, wholeheartedly clinging to his neck even as his mouth begged breathlessly over and over for his forgiveness. So fervently, so despairingly he implored, that Aramis, dark eyes deeply concerned, had necessarily to press his hands against D'Artagnan’s shivering back, to try and bring some comfort too.

 

"... I didn’t wa-nt Athos, I could nev-er, ever, betray you, I-I ow-e you ev-everything, you've saved me, I sw-wear, if I'd only kn-known, but I could not, I w-was alone, ‘thos, and she was th-ere, and I di-dn’t thought, I didn’t know.. "

 

Athos had to swallow several times to reign the burst of emotion that surged in his chest, caused by the sight of the boy, so totally _devastated_ by guilt due to something he could never, ever have predicted. How could have known, D'Artagnan? And most important, how could Athos calm him down enough to make him listen?

 

And then he had to swallow again, the Lieutenant, this time to push back the rush of protectiveness he felt at having their youngest so vulnerable in his arms, their Gascon, _for God's sake_ , always so indomitable, reckless, full of courage and honor.

 

“D'Artagnan breathe, calm down”

 

But there seemed to be no way to soothe him.

 

“... Please for-give me, please ‘thos, ‘m sorry, I-I never wan-ted to be-betray you, God please believe me-”

 

_He was sobbing in earnest._

Regardless of everything and everyone, he was sobbing and clutching to Athos’ neck like a lifeline.

 

And Aramis felt his throat tighten more and more painfully with emotion, and remorse, so heart-wrenching that sight was.

 

And Porthos was deadly sure he had never felt so disgusted with himself before, and so cruel in his entire life. So, always the man of action, he moved without thinking. His hands reached for their younger brother, and gently, oh so gently, he placed them at their Gascon’s sides, exchanging a glance with Athos, to convey his intentions.

Aramis also understood the hint too, because three as one they lifted D'Artagnan on his feet, and silently they led him outside the tavern, in the hope that the fresh air would help him calm down.

 

Unconsciously glaring threateningly at those who dared to raise their stares to D’Artagnan, few unsuspecting patrons, a couple of mocking drunkards, and a guy who almost fell from his stool as soon as he crossed looks with those three big Musketeers, who, like a very protective wall, were surrounding a boy in tears. Finally outside, Athos reached for D’Artagnan’s hands to disentangle them a little, enough to meet the youngster’s puffy red eyes. Enough to force the boy to listen to him.

 

For he had never blamed him.

Never.

Despite the shock, and confusion, and pain.

_Never._

 

“D'Artagnan listen. Listen to me” Athos said slowly, his words soft-spoken, as if he was really talking to a scared puppy, and not to a young Musketeer.

But D'Artagnan was clearly panicking, and Athos wasn’t sure he was coherent enough to understand his words.

 

Furthermore, he noticed with a start, he was starting to _shake_. Very much. So violently that they could barely make out the constant stream of words he was still uttering anymore.

And Aramis cursed when he realized that D’Artagnan was also breathing too shallowly.

 

“D’Artagnan, follow my voice. Breathe, slowly, like me” their marksman tried, lowering his voice to make it sound even more soothing. “Athos is not angry with you, and we are really sorry for our behavior, please, calm down and breathe for me”.

 

Porthos frowned, their whelp was obviously unable to reign what looked suspiciously like a panic attack. Something sadly familiar to them, given that Aramis had that kind of attacks periodically after Savoy.

 

“Hold him Athos, he’s panicking, he might hurt himself” he said, exchanging a knowing glance with a troubled Aramis

 

Athos nodded, recognizing the wisdom in that advice, and he gently pushed their lad to the wall, swallowing loudly when D’Artagnan unconsciously tried to resist, confused, tears-filled eyes wildly searching for him as his apologies ran even faster from his mouth in his need to be forgiven.

 

But the former Comte forced him still, pinning his wrists to the sides of his head, his gaze steady and so very gentle at the same time, so protective and full of kindness that Porthos, for a moment, had to look away to reign his own emotions. A sight so rare that if Aramis and Porthos didn’t love their little brother so much already, or hadn't been so worried about him, they would have been annoyed, and not for the first time, at how easily D’Artagnan was able to warm his way into each of their hearts.

 

Instead, _God helps them_ , they felt powerless.

And fools. Fools for having blamed the lad for something that was never his fault.

For causing him that much sorrow, for making him so vulnerable that he couldn't fight the need to apologize over and over, to the point of passing out.

 

“D'Artagnan. It was not your fault” Athos tried again, tightening his hold on their lad in the hope to be able to bring him back to consciousness.

 

“Athos” Aramis murmured tensely, frowning deeper, his hand pressed to their Gascon’s chest. “He will faint if we don’t do something”

 

“... Ple-ase ‘thos, f’rgive me, I’ll do ev’rything I c’n to make you f’rgive me, I beg you to b’lieve me-”

 

Athos clenched his jaw.

And he sighed.

And then, using a firm grip he pinned both D’Artagnan’s wrists with one hand, freeing his other one to place it over his mouth.

 

And finally, just like that, D'Artagnan was silent, his breathing so labored that for a second his eyes couldn't see anything, the warmth of the hands that held him securely, chest and wrists, the only thing to keep him on his feet, preventing him from collapsing to the ground like a puppet with no strings.

 

The next moment, however, he found himself in the arms of someone, pressed to a broad chest, strong, smelling of wine, leather, wood and gunpowder, so tightly that he couldn’t stifle a little pitiful, but surprised, moan. But then his exhausted mind understood what had happened, _Athos_ , _Athos was hugging him, Athos was hugging him fiercely_ , and he relaxed completely, seeking refuge in the crook of his mentor’s neck.

 

“Shh ... calm down. Calm down and breathe, D'Artagnan. You are safe, we are here. Breathe”

 

And D'Artagnan obeyed, drenched in tears and sweat, trembling, so worn that he felt he had fought, and lost, the fiercest of battles.

He obeyed, and he almost burst into tears again when he realized how deeply at home he felt encased in those safe arms, Aramis’ hand firmly nestled in his dark locks, and Porthos’ larger one resting at the nape of his neck.

 

“I know, D'Artagnan. It was not your fault” Athos murmured, his voice still so very soft, holding him even more tightly, the only thing, in fact, that kept the lad standing.

 

“I ... _you know?_ ” D’Artagnan croaked, unable to care if his voice sounded so helpless.

 

“I know” his mentor repeated soothingly, his breath gently ruffling his hair.

 

Only then D’Artagnan dared to move his arms, just slightly, to return, albeit tentatively, the Musketeer’s hug.

 

“It was not your fault, lad” Athos murmured encouragingly, kissing the boy’s temple while trying to swallow the affection, and that overwhelming protectiveness that choked his throat, to regain control of his emotions

 

“I’d never betray my brothers” D'Artagnan hiccupped, relaxing even more when the hands that were comforting him tightened their grip, both at his neck, his head, and his hips.

“We 'now it, brother. Forgive me. ‘m sorry whelp” a penitent Porthos promised, eyes heavenward to ward off his own tears. It was hard, too hard, _dammit_. All that sorrow just for a burst of anger, irrational, stupid, unmotivated. Dictated only by Athos’ dismay, from his visceral inability to see his brothers suffer. So sudden and uncontrollable that he couldn’t realize, at the time, that while protecting one of his brothers he was nearly destroying another.

 

“Forgive me” he murmured again, moving closer, enough to press his side against D’Artagnan’s arm and convey with his touch his affection. Feeling not at all surprised when the whelp’s arm moved, and a (too skinny) hand gripped firmly, albeit shakingly, his doublet.

 

“Calm down now” Aramis breathed too, absently stroking his little brother's dark locks, to reassure him and his own heart, that was still drumming wildly in his chest.

 

“F’rgive me”

 

“Hush now” the marksman repeated fondly, surrendering to the need to hold their Gascon even closer and resting his forehead on the top of his head, effectively completing that weird group hug that hereafter Athos would probably deny it had ever taken place.

 

And finally, D’Artagnan was able to breathe properly again.

Unconcerned if exhaustion eventually engulfed him, depriving him of consciousness.

Careless about what a passerby could think of those three Musketeers who were hiding, amongst them, a young soldier whose face was soaked with tears, clinging to one of them as if the earth could disappear from under his feet.

Oblivious to cold or heat, hunger or thirst, the sky and the stars, safe in those arms, amidst those bodies, held by those hands that had accepted him, _D’Artagnan,_ like no one ever had before. Hands that, armed with inexhaustible patience, had helped him to stand when he fell, reassured him when he feared, encouraged him when he struggled. Hands that knew him better than he knew himself, his strengths and weaknesses, but had adopted him, saved him, none the less, no matter what.

 

There was only warmth now.

A blissful, _oh so reassuring_ taste of honey and freedom, of home and safeness, of brotherhood and family, now, in his mouth.

And that green ribbon, tight in his hand.

Suddenly reunited with the wooden pole from which it had been torn.

 


	12. Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "More than images, colors, sounds, more than those moments spent together learning to ride, to cook a beef stew in a mid-winter night, to swordfight hard and fast, until he couldn’t move a muscle anymore, D’Artagnan, of the people he loved, he remembered their scents".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends, here I am with a little Easter present for you, a new chapter of this collection, N for Numb. I didn't put it into a chocolate egg, but well, I hope you'll like it anyway! But first and foremost, I have to bow Aramis' style before all of you, you were awesome with all your comments, kudos and bookmarks! How can I thank you all enough? Your support was so greatly appreciated I still find myself speechless before such a kindness, you really are the best!   
> This one wasn't easy to write, you'll realize why as soon as you'll read it probably, so I'll give you a little warning, yeah, it's a bit angsty (I just can't help myself, I know). It's a pretty long one, too, maybe the longest so far, so you're up for quite the ride. Still, it's one of my favorites, so I really hope you'll enjoy it too! Of course, I'd love to know your opinion, so please, don't be shy, your words are really cherished! And happy Easter, my friends, see you soon with a new chapter, the next one is ready to be published, I won't make you wait too long, I promise! Love you guys!!!

_“The sun himself is weak when he first rises,  
_ _and gathers strength and courage as the day gets on.”_  
(C. Dickens)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

More than images, colors, sounds, more than those moments spent together learning to ride, to cook a beef stew in a mid-winter night, to swordfight hard and fast, until he couldn’t move a muscle anymore, D’Artagnan, of the people he loved, he remembered their scents. His mother’s sweet natural fragrance, honey and flour, with a hint of red roses and freshly mowed lawn due to her fancy for gardening. His father’s odor, horse coat, damp earth, young wine and, who knows why, freshly picked apples. And then his older brother’s one, too, André’s, a troublemaker as much as D’Artagnan when he was a child, _or maybe as a young man too_. A pleasant harmony of mud, sweat, autumn rain, moss green from a sturdy trunk and soft warm bread, for more often than not those two little brothers stalked under the kitchen window to steal a freshly cooked loaf.

 

Those scents were firmly embedded in his mind, halfway between his head and his heart, etched into his nostrils like those wonderful but melancholy dreams that could visit you at night, and you always hope not to be woken up early. But then, when you open your eyes, they disappear, and the harder you try to tie them to you, the faster they dispel, only to vanish forgotten with the first rays of the mid-day sun.

 

Those smells, and D'Artagnan was well aware of that, were what he most held dear of his lost beloved family. Of course, in his room at the garrison he kept his father’s sword, a fine piece of crafted metal with a beautifully decorated hilt and a well-sharpened blade, sheathed in a lovely dark leather scabbard that Céleste, his mother, had sewn for Alexandre's forty-eighth birthday. And in a bag hidden just under his bed, small and military-narrow, but his, his and no one else’s, _assigned to the Musketeer D'Artagnan from Lupiac, in Gascony,_ carefully folded and wrapped in a layer of cerulean cloth, there was his mother’s crimson scarf, the one she always wore around her neck, lovingly mended by experts hands when the weather and use had torn it. And if he pressed it to his face hard enough, D’Artagnan was sure he could still smell Celeste’s sweet, beloved scent, blended with her fabric as it was merged with her heart.

Furthermore, in a small, sapphire blue pouch, closed by a thin dark leather string, the young Gascon kept a little memento of his beloved older brother, too: a fragment of his old wooden sword, with which, as children, they used to practice their swordsmanship, for they dreamed to become Musketeers as soon as they grew up. To serve the King, side by side, together until the day they died.  
But then, accidentally, that same wooden sword ended up in a bonfire lit during a cold, autumn night, right behind the farm, for D’Artagnan, always so passionate, had tried to disarm André maybe too enthusiastically, and in the process he had stumbled upon him, causing the sword to fly high in a perfect parabola before falling down into the flames. Alexandre, hearing his sons’ dismayed shouts, did what he could to rescue their precious toy, but nothing more than a scrap of burnt hilt could be retrieved.

It brought a small measure of comfort, to D’Artagnan, the knowledge that before leaving for Paris with his father he had been wise enough to bring along a little piece of his family. Because he never had the chance to return to the farm. Not before Labarge burned down everything.

 

His mother’s clothes, that beautiful silver comb that Alexandre had given her when he married her, shining like a mirror and decorated with pretty red roses, Celeste’s favorite flowers.  
But also all of his father’s books, the big wooden desk in front of which Alexandre sat every passing evening nursing a glass of Armagnac, the clock owned by his grandfather, Francoise, hand carved by the man with endless patience. An art that he had tried to teach both to Andrè and D'Artagnan, sadly without results. Those two were much too turbulent to sit motionless for longer than five minutes.

But the flames had also devoured the bedroom D’Artagnan shared with his brother, nothing more than a big closet, really, but committed only to their entertainment. So precious in a world that was all work and so little fun.

It was their stronghold, their royal palace, the woods that hid a gang of bandits, the river that was sweeping away a beautiful damsel in distress.  
It was the candlelight casting gold on the wooden walls and those long talks until far late into the night, Father often turning a blind eye when, come morning, they presented themselves at the stables for work with barely-open puffy red eyes and sleep-deprived pale faces.

There, in that small room, he remembered André reading a passage of the Twelfth Night to a bedridden D'Artagnan when he broke his left ankle, after jumping down from a running horse. _A bad idea, really._ And then becoming bored with all those words, written in black, small letters, and André’s hand throwing the book aside to let their imagination run free, and concoct their own story ending.

There was an entire world in that room, back then. But now, that room was only a pile of ashes. _As everything else._

 

Only those two small tokens, the handkerchief and the sword fragment, were saved. D'Artagnan thanked God every day for that moment of unexpected thoughtfulness.

 

And yet, the smells were what best he remembered of his loved ones. Those, and the thought brought him much comfort, no one could ever throw them to the flames. No one could ever violate them. _Not as long as D'Artagnan lived._

 

Inevitably, though, there was no way to stop the memories when a particular scent struck his nose, dragging him sharply and inexorably to a past that now seemed so far away. And the force with which he was sometimes snatched from reality, when the combination of smells especially resembled the original scent, still firmly nestled between his mind and his heart, that was what momentarily stunned him.  
Made him _numb_.  
Completely.

 

Numb to the outside world, to the horse he was riding, to the din of the Thursday morning market, when the farmers arrived in Paris to sell their livestock. But also to the clash of the swords during the regiment’s training, if Serge put a particular effort in cooking the lunch for the Musketeers and the results of his recipes smelled too much like home.

 

Oh, D'Artagnan was strong. If there was an undeniable quality in him, it was his inner strength. Forged, sharpened, _tempered_ by an inexhaustible force of will, a good measure of stubbornness, of recklessness and a sense of honor that had few equals among the boys of his age. So, even if sometimes the weight of memories made him feel numb, he usually recovered quickly.

Well, _most of the times_ , at least.

 

Because despite being a Musketeer, and a young man of great strength, D'Artagnan was also human. He was made of flesh, and blood, and emotions, he was as impetuous as a raging river and filled with a passion that sometimes seemed more like a curse than a blessing. And life, with that boy who had to became a man much too early, _seven years old, he was only seven years old when he found himself alone with his father, a dagger thrust through his heart with the name of his brother, André, engraved on a blade that bleed guilt, remorse and regret,_ had not been terribly kind.

 

Then again, and the young Gascon was well aware of that, as Alexandre had explained to him that Sunday of May, a broken green ribbon firmly clutched in his small hands, life was rarely generous.

And if that brief, but gentle speech wasn’t enough to convince him, he had joined the regiment, first unofficially, and then officially, almost a year ago, now, and he knew enough of the stories of Athos, Porthos and Aramis to learn that truth for himself.

 

His _brothers_.  
His wonderful, sometimes crazy, some other times too adorable for their own good (though this, D'Artagnan, would not admit it out loud even under torture) brothers.  
Firsthand examples of how life, how fate, could be just plain cruel.

 

 

_Athos_ , betrayed by the love of his life, the murderess of his beloved younger brother, the woman he had to sentence to her death, condemning himself to slowly and painfully ebb away in the process. And before that? A childhood as a Vicomte, and a boyhood as a Comte, dutiful but isolated, estranged, _alone_. Thomas was everyone’s favorite. Thomas, not Athos. _Not Olivier_. So Athos grew up without knowing what friendship tasted like, what complicity meant, chained hand and foot to his strict sense of duty, and to a title nailed to his face like an iron mask even before the Musketeer learnt to swordfight. He grew up alone, with only Thomas as a company, assuming the role of the protector even if he was just a orphaned boy, his back stiff as he walked surrounded only by valets, tutors and his governess, as if needing affection, for a nobleman, _or a noble boy in this case_ , was an unpleasant illness from which he must steer clear. And D'Artagnan could almost see him, young Olivier, prisoner of that beautiful mansion nestled atop lush green hills that smelled of forget-me-nots. His proud face, pale blue eyes impassive as mountains, his hair perfectly combed to brush the collar of an adorned and too-stiff shirt. He could picture him sitting at his table surrounded by men and women who looked at him raising their eyebrows, the only gentle hand reaching for his own, the one of his servants.

He could almost envision that lonely boy even now, if he looked hard enough in those steel blue eyes. And sometimes he couldn't help but wonder how, exactly, a story so cold had been able to give life to a character so ... _kindhearted_. Unable to turn away who needed his help, unable to deny anything to his brothers, unable to think of his own wounds, as excruciating as they could be, before someone had taken care of Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan.

Condemned by his ability to love, indeed.

Oh, Athos offered resistance, he fought his emotions as hard as he could. He had tried to keep everyone at distance, he was still trying, day after day, because if you don’t care, if you don’t let yourself grow fond of someone, then you can keep your heart intact a bit longer. But if that wall, as high as a mighty fortress, was overcome... _well_. The devotion hidden inside was _defeating_.

For D'Artagnan, it took a little while to realize that he had already gained that devotion some time ago. But when at last he saw it, that sparkle his mentor’s eyes, he had been almost moved to tears.

Because he knew that the bond that tied their hearts together would last as long as they both lived.

 

And then there was Aramis. Beautiful, brilliant, ironic, charming _Aramis_. He, too, was doomed from his very own heart. As if surviving a massacre alone, abandoned in those dark, never-ending, frightening woods with only the company of twenty dead comrades for three long days and three longer nights, eaten alive by the snow, the ravens, and a heart-wrenching sense of guilt tearing at his soul like the jaws of a big, black wolf, wasn't enough, he was also sentenced by his boundless ability to love. To adore. To worship life in its entirety, a God’s gift to the men, as much as the beauty, the passion, and Love itself. He was cursed, poor Aramis. Condemned to suffer the most atrocious of tortures by a cruel and unmerciful Fate: losing the women who owned his heart. _Isabelle. Adele._

He had smiled, Aramis, when one evening, shortly after their first meeting, that frantic race to save Athos from the firing squad, D'Artagnan had asked him who was this Adele, of whom he talked about so much.

He had smiled, as if nothing had happened. The Gascon, at the time, didn’t know him well enough to recognize the shadow that had crossed his stunningly deep brown eyes, but now he did. Guilt, sorrow, heartbreak. He was in love. And for some reason, _the Cardinal, it was the Cardinal’s fault_ , he had lost her.

Isabelle’s story, however, Aramis told him much later. Not long ago, to be honest, almost a year after involving him in the quest of saving Athos' life. It happened that same evening after the four of them had thwarted the Cardinal’s and his spy, Milady, plans. Days clouded by fatigue and bitterness, drenched in guilt, and, for D’Artagnan, so much _sorrow_. Days exhausting beyond belief for the Inseparables, a brotherhood strengthened by the youngster’s arrive, and then by each end every challenge they had to face – and _survive_ \- together, day after day.

If D’Artagnan stared hard enough, he could still catch his mentor’s beautiful icicle eyes dart to his side, from time to time, to the scar left by the musket shot, as if the man couldn’t let go of the guilt he must have felt when he had to harm his protégé, regardless of the lad’s insistence that it was just a scratch, _please stop to think about it, Athos!_

Aramis, on the other hand, was smiling, but there was a melancholy barely concealed underneath that beautiful face when he thought no one was looking at him, that D'Artagnan more than once had almost stopped breathing. It was _all encompassing_. Too violent. Disturbingly alike to those glimpse of sorrow that sometimes flashed through Athos’ sharp orbs, for as much as he hated it, he couldn’t completely free his own heart from Milady’s green eyes even after he had spared her life.

So, D'Artagnan had asked Aramis, as gently as he could, the reason beneath that pain, ready to offer him his help, to lent his brother a shoulder to lean on. The marksman had stared at him. Long. And hard. And then he had parted his lips, his tongue darting briefly around his mouth as thought it was suddenly dry, and the young Musketeer had learned of Sister Helene, of _Isabelle_ , the mother of Aramis’ son, dead before he was even born.

And he had to grit his teeth, the Gascon, because the sincere longing mixed with remorse that he saw engulfing Aramis’ handsome face, beautiful, _too beautiful for his own good_ , it was so deep, he looked so innocently lost, that for the first time after all those months the Gascon realized that the marksman of regiment, the deadliest shot of the King’s Musketeers, was also a 28 years old young man. Not really much older than himself. Too young to be an experienced soldier, the lover of two missing women, and the father of an unborn child. It was too much.

 

And finally, but not least, there was Porthos, _dear, kind_ _Porthos_ , a survivor, a fierce gladiator standing in the middle of a bloodied battlefield after a war fought against Life itself. Raised in Hell with the label of the slavery sewn onto his very ebony skin, left without his mother when he was still too young to learn to wash his own clothes, fatherless, and overburdened by a future uncertain enough to transform the world, before his eyes, into a nightmarish landscape. He had made it, because we are talking about Porthos. _Of course he had._ He was a warrior. As a child, in the Court of Miracles he had found some friends, he had made a name for himself, a reputation. But the scars he wore beneath his flesh, his blood and muscles, marked him so deeply that sometimes D’Artagnan felt the overwhelming need to grip his arm, to remind him that he had a family now, someone who loved him enough to die for him, who waited for him, who listened to him and worried. _Cared_.

And the most heart-wrenching thing was that Porthos always responded with a surprised look at those gestures of affection, D'Artagnan had noticed it almost immediately. First watching Aramis and Athos bump his shoulders with their own, linger their hands on his back, pierce him with their fond stares. Than he saw firsthand the light that sometimes flashed through those dark irises in response to his affection, softening them so swiftly, so suddenly that probably only those who knew him really well, or chose to linger more than a moment on his face, could see it.

But he, the Gascon, had always been observant, and that flash, fast as a comet, had broken his heart. Even before he knew how hard had been Porthos’ life, D'Artagnan had felt a knot in his stomach as he saw that expression on his face. And as he felt that _surprise_ in his embrace.

Porthos hugged rarely, and never someone outside of his three, and now four, adoptive brothers. But when he did, and he realized that the hug was reciprocated, he _brightened_. Literally. When Aramis, D'Artagnan, or in extremely rare occasions, Athos, embraced him on their own initiative, he froze. Even if it was for just a heartbeat. As if he couldn’t believe that these three men loved him more than they loved themselves. As if he was afraid to see them turn their head in disdain at any moment. A heartbeat, before he relaxed in the hug.

 

For Athos, Porthos and Aramis were men as well, as much as they were the best King’s Musketeers. And as men, they loved, hoped, laughed and suffered until they were _writhing_ in pain.

 

So, as said, D’Artagnan was well aware that life was hard, cruel, and very seldom generous enough to make someone smile. He saw it before his very own eyes, it was written on Alexandre’s, Celeste’s and Andrè’s gravestones. It shadowed Athos’, Porthos’ and Aramis’ eyes.  
And while he was a proud lad, maybe too proud, unable even to ask for help at times, something that worried his brothers more than they’d let on, D’Artagnan had learned not to be ashamed of those times when he felt the ground disappear from under his feet, swept away by a powerful smell that plummeted him into a past of bittersweet memories.

Not too much, at least.  
And not right away.  
 _It took time._

 

At first he was afraid of losing their respect if he showed himself weak because of his emotions. He feared he would be considered too helpless to wear the pauldron. They were always so damn strong, after all, and tireless, and lethal, the light emanating from those three soldiers was so unyieldingly powerful that the whole regiment was dazzled.

New recruits watched them train in awe, and tirelessly pursued them with their eyes until their figures disappeared beyond the entrance of the garrison.

The older Musketeers, on the contrary, approached them, a greeting, a jug of wine between meals and training, a pat on the back after returning from a mission (of course not with Athos, no one had the courage to give him a pat on the back). But even so, the admiration they felt for the three men was evident, tangible as the azure cloaks that they so proudly wore tied to their chest, and for this reason it had taken a bit of time for the Musketeers to accept the fact that the trio was now a quartet.

 

So D’Artagnan had been afraid to make a fool of himself before their eyes by revealing them what he felt.

 

Then, though, something had changed his mind.

 

Athos was the first one to break through his insecurities. It happened one night, after he awoke from a nightmare. It was raining, and thunder and lightning had reminded him too much of his arrival in Paris. _Father_. But Athos’ hands were big, and strong, and warm, and D’Artagnan had blushed when he had felt them on his back oh so comfortingly, but he had found himself unable to move. To pull back.

 

And then Porthos, who had guided him around Paris’ roofs after Labarge had destroyed his farm. His older brother had showed him his own mother’s face with his words, _Porthos still remembered her so well, as if they met only yesterday,_ and then the Musketeer had hugged him when D’Artagnan, humbled by the sheer sorrow beneath his tale, had squeezed his arm in his innocent, and a bit naive, attempt to lend comfort.

 

And how many times Aramis, with a single kind word, a glimpse of gold in those dark, soft irises, had destroyed his barriers forcing him to sob Constance’s name with his face hidden in the crook of his neck?

 

So D’Artagnan had started to relax. And if some smell hit him particularly hard, and he blanched, shivering, his mind full of voices laughing with him, shouting a greeting, calling loudly his name, _Charles, come here, dinner is ready_ , the terror that the three Inseparables could see, and understand, and judge him, wasn't there anymore.

 

But to be honest, and D'Artagnan was an honest lad, especially with himself, there was a time that had really cemented that relationship of devotion and blood that was his fraternity with his three adoptive brothers.

The moment when he finally had felt his shoulders loosen completely, his eyes becoming less shy, less ready to dart from face to face in search of the dreaded blame.  
The moment when he realized that God had torn apart his family, but in his benevolence, had granted him a second one. A beacon of light in a world of darkness.  
And that he, _Charles_ , was as a pillar of that family as pillars were the three men, older brothers, he so admired.

 

Ironically, to hand over the keys of his heart to Athos, Porthos and Aramis, his adoptive brothers, it was André, his brother by blood.  
Just three weeks ago.  
The day when Alexandre's firstborn would have turned 25. 

The wound on D'Artagnan’s side, the one inflicted by Athos’ pistol, had not healed yet, for it was not so long ago that they had forced the Cardinal to surrender, saved Constance, and banished Milady from Paris, Athos freeing himself, if slightly, from the clutches of the demon of guilt.

So, and the Gascon still felt his cheeks turn red with shame at the thought, D’Artagnan had initially forgotten what day it was that Thursday morning, while on patrol, with his three brothers, he walked the streets of Paris with his pauldron proudly fastened to his shoulder.

 

Everything was going well, in fact, even better than usual. Aramis and Porthos were bickering like children, an endless source of delight for young D’Artagnan, at least until one of them caught him laughing and decided to take revenge by ruffling his hair.

 

_They should know, by know, how it bloody annoyed him!_

 

And Athos’ lips, too, while he was still as proud as ever, the epithet of the King's Musketeers, sometimes twitched at the antics of his three brothers, childish, oh so childish, but endearing nonetheless.

 

Despite the forthcoming fall, the sun was high in the ocean of blue that was the sky, marred only by few lazy puffy clouds that from time to time slid absentmindedly upon the muddy streets of Paris, and its rays were so shining that the bustling colours of the Thursday’s market looked hand-painted by an artist, so vigorous were the glorious sunbeams that morning.

 

Then, however, he had sensed it.  
It hit his nostrils at once, without any warning, and with a force that for a time, long, too long, D'Artagnan went numb.  
That smell.

_Freshly baked bread, damp earth, and a hint of the rain fell just the night before._

That smell.  
The smell of _André_.

 

And D'Artagnan froze, as if a lightning had descended from the sky to struck him immobile, an amber stoned statue erected in the middle of the market square.  
He was frozen, oblivious to the steady hand of Porthos resting on his shoulder, Aramis’ chuckles still filling his ears, or Athos’ eyebrows lifting, the man trying to appear exasperated by his brothers’ behavior without much success.

 

That smell ... it was like a punch in the stomach.

 

Like a dam that collapsed, letting the river flow of violent freedom. To engulf, destroy, erase. To rewrite the geography of a valley.

 

His eyes immediately moistened.  
Of nostalgia, but also of remorse.  
 _Pain_.

Because, as a flash, that smell reminded him of his Andrè, and the next moment he finally realized what day it was. _His brother’s birthday._

The shame almost swallowed him whole, insensitive to the sounds, the colors, the smells that still surrounded him, to the life outside of his immobilized body that proceeded as if nothing had happened, as if D'Artagnan had not proved, once again, that he was worst younger brother of the whole history.

 

Lost.  
For a long time, he felt lost.  
And _numb_.

 

As every other time, it was his brothers who brought him back to reality. _Porthos_ , with his brow furrowed, that called his name and squeezed gently his arm. _Aramis_ , losing his smile, his fingers automatically brushing his side, unconsciously looking for injuries that he could not, could not see. And _Athos_ , whose eyes immediately overshadowed as they found those of D'Artagnan, lost in a past that would never return. But that forever, perhaps, would try to rip apart his young heart with the icy hands of guilt.

 

Looking at them from the outside, perhaps no one would ever suspect of how utterly capable those men were at taking care of each other. Unadulterated love was what moved with incredible kindness their strong hands, that softened their voices in a velvety swirl of baritonal sounds, their bodies a mix of natural and artificial scents, gunpowder, sweat, leather, wine, water, spices, flowers (this was Aramis), that he knew it must be, in the eyes of God, the perfume of the most sacred concept of family.

 

Countless times, now, those hands had assisted him. Had cared for him. Anchored him.

 

And even if D’Artagnan was lost, in that sunny Thursday morning of market, was numb, was prisoner of his past and his brother’s smell, a memory flashed through him. Swift, like a gust of wind. A heartbeat, but for a short, too fleeting moment, he relaxed. For he remembered the last time they took care of him before that same morning. It was the night he had discovered that the woman he had slept with as he arrived in Paris was none other than the murderess wife of Athos.

 

He was almost unconscious at the time, but the heat branded in his flesh by the tips of their fingers he could never forget. Nor he could misremember how they went looking for him even when he felt he didn’t warrant their forgiveness.

 

 

-*-*-

 

_“He passed out” Athos murmured, tightening the grip of his arms around the young Gascon’s unconscious body, his lax face nestled in the crook of his neck, in order to prevent him from collapsing into the filthy street that led to the equally filthy tavern where they had found him in tears, sobbing in his wine, drunk and captive of his guilt._

_“Have you got him?” Aramis questioned quietly, resting his cheek on their boy’s head, tilting his chin slightly to meet their Lieutenant’s troubled eyes._

_“I'll help” Porthos offered immediately, moving gently the marksman aside to take D’Artagnan’s arm and share with his older brother the - still too inadequate - weight of his body._

_“I got him” Athos confirmed then, wrapping the other boy's arm around his own neck to jostle him as little as possible as they began to walk slowly, Paris a show of crystal in the cold silver of the moonlight._

_The streets were quiet and deserted, just some drunkard lingered in the alleys clutching green glass bottles filled with cheap red wine, their voices interrupting from time to time the stillness of the night to mumble nonsense words, or answer to those ghosts that only the spirits could awaken._

_The air smelled of moist, as if the rain was near, but the sky was clear at the time, and the stars shone like a sea of fireflies in a forest obscured by the lack of sun._

_“I feel awful” Porthos murmured, exactly fifty steps after leaving the tavern, Athos’ quarters already in sight. A small two-story building wedged between two other constructions of the same height, grayish brick walls and a window left open in the hurry to leave and find their Gascon._

_Aramis sighed, tilting his head slightly to cast a worried glance to their senseless pup before meeting the big Musketeer’s dark, sad eyes._

_“I know” he muttered then, wincing as he remembered D’Artagnan’s tears, something that would probably weight on their souls for a long time._

_“I should not have reacted in that manner” Athos nodded stiffly, for he never hesitated to take on any burden. And how could he? Although he had fought with nails and teeth to avoid being tied up with these two, and then three, insane, absurd, too-ready-to-defend-a-worthless-drunkard, foolish men (or young pup, in one case), they had captured him, chained him, and almost lost their voices in the attempt of convincing him that, under those thick layers of remorse, he was worthy. Of their love, their devotion, their loyalty._

_“Do not start, please, brother. Your dismay was more than justified, our bitterness, our anger, was not. We should have helped, instead of pointing our fingers at D'Artagnan” the Spaniard retorted bitterly, his own remorse a dead weight in his chest even as his arm moved to rest briefly, but protectively, on Athos._

_“Aye, what ‘e said” Porthos grunted, shooting a hard look at Athos when the man parted his lips to counter. The Lieutenant narrowed his stormy blue eyes, but relented, closing his mouth with a vague sense of resignation. There was no way, try as he might, to force those three stubborn idiots to recognize the darkness that engulfed his soul. His cowardice, that made him turn his back to the execution of a murderess, and unable to protect Thomas from the blade of a knife._

_“It w’sn't your fault”._

_The trio stopped abruptly when that voice, crippled by wine, D'Artagnan’s, interrupted their hushed speech. And for a moment the shock of finding him conscious overpowered them, leaving them standing in the middle of the street, the door of Athos’ lodgings now less than five feet away._

_“When did you came to your senses?” Aramis asked, the first to recover, as he elegantly arched his eyebrow._

_“Littl’ while ‘go” D’Artagnan moaned, trying to open his eyes despite the concert played by the orchestra of drums that had taken up residence in his head. But he couldn’t keep silent anymore, he couldn’t just listen helplessly to Athos blaming himself for his stupid, stupid mistake. And Aramis, and Porthos too. Maybe it was the spirits that made him more aware than usual, or perhaps the visceral pain left in his bones by those last hours, lived in fear of losing everything... but even if he was barely conscious he recognized immediately the sorrow in his brothers’ voices._

_So he had to make it go away. “Mis’nderst’nding. Do not w’rry” he uttered, weakly but pleadingly._

_Porthos smiled at that, his eyes softening immediately as he met those of Athos and Aramis, illuminated by same the quiet glow of affection._

_“Rest pup, we’ll talk ‘bout it tomorrow” he grinned, shaking his head but tightening his grip on the youngster’s hips, and not because of the effort to hold up the boy._

_“No ... he ... you ... guilty” D'Artagnan insisted frowning, because yes, he could be stubborn even when he was balancing on the verge of unconsciousness._

_Athos’ lips quivered slightly, as his grip also became firmer._

_“Sleep” he commanded, but his voice was that light baritone that he reserved for special occasions. Grave wounds, usually, or those moonless nights when nightmares were almost a tangible thing, as if the shadows were a step away from growing a body of flesh and blood and snatch his brothers._

_“Mh” the Gascon mumbled, but it was obvious he had exhausted his energy._

_In fact, Aramis lifted his chin with a gentle hand, and then smiled slightly and shook his head._

_“Passed out again”._

_Porthos laughed softly, leave it to D'Artagnan to come to long enough to alleviate their guilt and steal a smile from them even when their backs were heavy with remorse. And then he bent, lifting his younger brother effortlessly in his arms._

_“Come on” he smiled, an encouraging wink for both Athos and Aramis. And their hearts were lighter as the Spaniard grinned fondly before leading them to the small wooden door and opening it._

_Athos rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, but let the marksman manhandle him inside the narrow corridor, not even trying to stifle another small twitch of his lips._

_“Ya ‘now, we should do more to fatten the pup up. He’s still too light” Porthos conversed casually, following them up the stairs with no particular trouble._

_“Not to mention his habit of fainting in our arms like a maiden. Although I must admit that, by now, he can do it quite gracefully” Aramis smirked, his eyes sparkling mischievously._

_“You're wasting your breath, gentlemen, since he can not hear you teasing him” Athos remarked, an almost imperceptible hint of amusement in his voice. Aramis laughed then, a charmingly rich sound, virile, pleasant to be heard, a flash of gold that drove away with even more force the ghosts of that dark night of confessions._

_And Porthos grinned brightly too, that even that sound, their laughs, their bickering, Athos who attempted uselessly to be the voice of reason, D'Artagnan asleep before they treated themselves to one last glass of wine, tasted undeniably of home._

_And he was still smiling when he deposited with extreme care their puppy on Athos’ bed, before starting to unbuckle his belt and weapons in perfect sync with his brothers, busy respectively with the lad’s doublet and boots._

_“If you wish to stay, you know where the spare blankets are” the Lieutenant murmured, unconsciously reaching with his hand to brush D’Artagnan's hair, the raw vulnerability of his young face doing things to his ribs._

_“And leave you alone with a drunk puppy?” Aramis smirked, tilting his head slightly with his lips curled in amusement_

_“We would miss all the fun” Porthos laughed softly, starting to remove his own leathers._

_Athos rolled his eyes again. But his own treacherous hands were already tucking D'Artagnan’s blanket more firmly under his chin._

-*-*-

 

 

“D'Artagnan? Are you all right?”

The Gascon shook himself from his daze as he recognized the note of urgency in Aramis’ voice, and spun around, catching those dark irises fastened like gems on his handsome face.

 

No, he wasn't.

No.

He had forgotten.

How could have he forgotten? Even if just for a few hours? Even if those days, weeks, months, had been frantic?

But he didn’t wish to bother them.

And he didn’t know how to explain, however, that blade he felt impaled through his heart.

 

“I'm fine, sorry, I got distracted”

 

His voice sounded alien even to his ears, and it wasn’t necessary to be a keen observer to note that neither Athos, Porthos, nor Aramis believed his words. But the Lieutenant shook his head slightly. This was not the time, anyway. They were on patrol, and the market square was hardly the place to talk.

 

D'Artagnan didn’t see him, his mind was already too far away to notice how Athos began to walk beside him, so close that their shoulders bumped at every step they took. Or the silent conversation going over his head between Porthos and Aramis, the Parisian crowd that was moving around them like the water of a calm river around a rock, carrying smells, tastes and colors. Names and faces of a city that knew how to love, to hate, to protect and to punish like a Queen. Stoic, indifferent, but sometimes so ruthless.

 

He ... he could feel only that scent, burning his nostrils, and it was the most bittersweet fragrance. And the more he inhaled it, the more he felt it enveloping him, as if a brush with his flesh was enough to ingrain it in his brain. It was smoke sliding down his throat, filling his chest, cumbering his stomach. Smoke that trespassed his heart, and squeezed, strong, so strong that for a moment he thought he would die.

 

And D'Artagnan could only keep breathing, trying to steal his senses from that essence he so loved. He was a Musketeer, and furthermore, he was on duty. Still, the battle he engaged with his emotions was so furious that for the most part, he felt numb. A ghost in leather armor wandering around the market square looking for an absolution he knew he didn’t deserve. A lost soul that too late tried to come to terms with his past.

 

_Athos_.

 

D'Artagnan almost froze again when he realized, there and then, and with dazzling clarity, that he knew exactly what his mentor had felt for six long years. For the first time, he figured out that those demons that too often he saw beyond Athos’ pale blue irises had a name and a face that he knew as well. They had the form and the substance of guilt. He felt the weight of the death of a brother on his shoulders too, a brother he was too late to protect, too late to rescue, too hard to think even now that he was worth of some sort of forgiveness.

 

In Athos’ eyes there was a glimpse, _painful, oh so painful_ , of his own scars. Old marks that could still bleed.

 

For there are wounds, inflicted upon the heart, that never, ever heal.

They scar. And sometimes, even scars may cry. Red, velvet tears that like a poison merge irreparably with blood, and the body overheats and freezes, but those tears morph into iron, and they stab the flash with a thousand needles again and again, until even exist seems unbearable. Sometimes you can ignore them, deceive them, put them to sleep. But you can never, ever defeat them. And at the first sign of weakness, the first spark that triggers memories, they come back violently, their only reason to exist, to _destroy_.

 

For D'Artagnan, it was a certain mixture of smells that triggered that poison, that pain, that regret. That torturous kind of hate towards himself. And for a moment, just a moment, amid that all-encompassing numbness, he felt despair. Because the knowledge that until his death he’d live with that weight almost choked him.

 

He had no strength to face that raw war against himself just to put a stop to the spreading poison.  
He felt exhausted.  
Worn out.  
Spinning.

 

Especially since that day, that particular Thursday, he had a reason to hate himself with even greater force. To ask the sky why he, _Charles_ , was alive when Andrè, heir to their father, was dead. The most intelligent, attractive, strong, proud, of them. The portrait of Alexandre in every way it counts. Not like him, Charles, too weak to live without reaching for a hand willing to hold his own. Too coward to face his demons with his eyes dry from tears. Too stupid to admit aloud that it was his fault, _his own bloody fault,_ if Andrè was dead. He should have gone with him that day, and instead, a mere cold had caused his brother, his own flesh and blood, to die the most unfair death.

 

Therefore, D'Artagnan was exhausted when, a few hours later, they returned to the garrison for a delayed lunch, that their shift was over and the clock marked the three in the afternoon. Hatred, after all, was all-consuming. And the hate he felt for himself had drained him to the last drop of energy.

 

He blanched when Porthos, resting his dark eyes on his smaller weakened form, so obviously upset was D'Artagnan, said hopefully that a good meal was exactly what they needed.

And then when he saw Serge emerge from the kitchen with a tray of hot stew in his hands, welcoming them with a gentle grin.

He felt his breath catch in his chest as Aramis’ strong arm led him to the table, just to stop abruptly as the Gascon went still right in front of the bench.

Athos frowned, staring at him in search of a reason behind his paleness, but without success.

 

“D'Artagnan, are you not feeling well?” Aramis inquired frowning, his soft voice tinged with concern as he too moved to catch his eyes.

The boy blinked, without finding the strength to meet his gaze.

“I'm fine” he uttered faintly, too busy at swallowing convulsively to keep from throwing up, to worry about his voice.

“Yeah, you look fine” Porthos grumbled wryly, somewhere close to him

“Sorry, I forgot an urgent matter that I must attend to” D'Artangnan murmured, trying desperately to look away from the table and focus on his breathing, while at the same time his feet were moving backward.

“An urgent matter?” Aramis repeated, arching a brow

“Yes, I'll join you later” D'Artagnan nodded quickly, folding his lips into a smile that looked too much like a grimace, and anyway it never reached his eyes. But he couldn’t do better than that, it was impossible, keeping from collapsing at their feet was already getting more and more strenuous, he had to leave, now, before his tears made their appearance, possibly. Or worse… before they had the chance - and D'Artangna flinched as the thought crossed his mind - to ask him questions.

_God… Athos ..._ he could imagine how Athos would react. He would probably find a way to blame himself for D’Artagnan’s guilt, to worsen his own, and the young man couldn’t bear the thought of hurting, even accidentally, his mentor. Never. He would rather cut his sword arm with his main gauche.

 

_Too bad Aramis was so bloody fast..._

 

D’Artagnan had barely the time retreat of two steps when a hand grabbed his arm, forcing him to sit at the table. “Lunch first, D'Artagnan. It wouldn’t do you any good to walk around the city with an empty stomach” the Spaniard tutted, sitting next to him for good measure, as if to physically prevent him from moving.

 

For the briefest of moment, though, it was like the scent emanating from his skin, so Aramis, a mix of leather, gunpowder, and who knows why, flowers, could shelter him, building around him an ephemeral sense of security. Clouding his senses. Engulfing his mind.

It lasted, again, a heartbeat, but it was enough for D’Artagnan muscles to relax abruptly. One by one, at the same time, so promptly that the youngster’s slender figure wavered, Aramis’ quick reflexes the only thing that saved him from dropping to the ground.

“Oi!” Porthos exclaimed, reaching out instantly over the table to grab his little brother’s shoulder, eyes that immediately sought those of Athos and Aramis before returning his gaze to a pale, really too pale, pup.

“D'Artagnan?” Athos called quietly, but no less alarmed, frowning as he followed Aramis’ arm, which moved to gently help the boy to regain his balance

“Do you feel faint?” the Spaniard asked softly, sitting so close to the Gascon that his unruly curls grazed the lad’s cheek

“No ...” D'Artagnan mumbled. And then he frowned, pressing his lips to try and regain control of himself. “No”, he repeated more forcefully, “I just felt lightheaded for a moment”

 

“Eat” Porthos ordered gruffly, but not unkindly, moving an already full plate of food under his nose.

 

Again, D'Artangnan pursed his lips. But since there was no way, now, to escape without attracting more unwanted attention he obeyed, biting a slice of bread that tasted like the trunk of a tree his mouth.

Aramis slowly drew back his arm, ready to catch the boy again if needed, but his newfound stability reassured him slightly, and exchanging a calmer look with his brothers he nodded imperceptibly, digging into his own meal.

 

The companionable silence stretched for few minutes then, the three older Musketeers busy with their lunch, and their not too veiled observation of D'Artagnan, still worryingly hunched, and quiet, but at least he was eating, and the trio’s concern subsided enough to strike up a quiet conversation, which soon turned into the usual bickering between Porthos and Aramis, Athos allowing himself, from time to time, a slight twitch of his lips, or a roll of his eyes.

 

And even D'Artagnan, surrounded as he was by his new adoptive family, that smelled reassuringly of warmth and protectiveness, couldn’t keep from grinning at their banter, so deadly the two of them were on the battlefield, and so childish among each other. He felt safe. He felt at home, for the smell of the garrison always managed to make him feel at home. It tasted like wet earth and horse mane, wood exposed to the elements, and gunpowder, cheap wine, freshly baked bread and stew simmering over the fire. It was reassuring.

Tangible, like a mother’s arms that protectively wrap her babies.

It was the solidity of the stone surrounding a safe haven wedged in the heart of the bustling city, a wall of rocks that kept the shores safe from the violent waves of the ocean.

The bulwark against war, blood, pain and struggles.

The warmth of a bed after a day in the service of the King, and his brothers’s arms, welcoming and benevolent, ready to remind him that there was a refuge, here, from the hurricane that it was the life of the Musketeers.

 

But then the wind _changed_.

It brought to his nostrils the smell of rain.  
And with a rush of self-hatred, D'Artagnan remembered that this was not a day like any other, and that he, Charles, had a duty to uphold. He, only he, the last D'Artagnan alive on this Earth.

 

So he jumped up, unable, all over again, to focus on his brothers’ voices. He vaguely registered how the smile froze on Aramis’ dashing face, how Athos' eyes widened, how Porthos’ brow furrowed in concern. But all he could do was to mumble an apology that he would never remember, and briskly, almost running, he left the garrison, Notre Dame’s bells ringing the five o'clock in the afternoon.

 

To think about it, D’Artagnan couldn’t have said what led him to choose the Church of Saint-Etienne du Mont. Perhaps because it was close to Notre Dame, a diamond blade shining in the setting sun like the feathered wings of an angel, and Notre Dame was near the garrison, so, somehow, it felt close to home. Or maybe because he was tired of a weariness that had nothing to do with his body, and he didn’t want to wander around Paris long enough to find another oasis of comfort.

Be as it may, half an hour later that’s where he was, a small glowing candle in his trembling hands that burned softly and his slender frame surrounded by the symphony of Gothic lines, arches and heights that was Saint-Etienne. The nave was almost deserted, only a handful of Parisians stood near the altar to hear the priest murmuring the rosary, and so over there, fifteen steps to the left of the enormous wooden portal surmounted by angels and saints, D'Artagnan almost felt shielded. Safe. Free to implore once again, _and for the thousandth time in his young life_ , Andrè to forgive him.

 

“I know I have abandoned you. I know it was my fault, all my fault. I know you’ll hate me now, because if that day I ... If that day I hadn’t been foolish, a stupid child, you ...”.

 

His throat tightened, and his hands were shaking so much that the small white candle fluttered dangerously, but D'Artagnan almost didn’t noticed it, busy as he was at baring his soul, dozens of candles arranged on a long, circular table placed at the foot of a high, white column, between Holy Mary’s smiling face and a portrait of Saint Etienne, his only witnesses.

He was looking for something he would never obtain because he was unable to forgive himself, to forgive the Death herself, that with her long, dark scythe had claimed too many innocent victims. He sought a relief which taste he had forgot, too far away from his fingers to catch it. All he could do was to cling firmly to the pain in his throat, hoping to keep from drowning in that maelstrom of freezing waters and crippling remorse that was his own soul.

 

His white candle flickered once again when he placed it on the table among the others, lit by the faithfuls who searched for guardian angels to protect their loved ones, dead or alive. A little wax slipped burning his hand, but his skin was so cold that he felt barely some warmth.

 

“Forgive me Andrè. Forgive me” he murmured, keeping his voice low in the imposing church, that could turn the tinkling of a pin dropping to the ground in a thunder, his mouth salty with tears and trembling fists close to his hips.

 

“Please forgive me” he whispered brokenly in a stronger sob, his knees giving way under the weight of his shame. He crumpled to the ground in a rustle of the leather and pain, trying to hide his pale, soaked face, under the curtain of his black tresses. He was ashamed of his tears. He hated them. He hated to see them fall like little drops of rain on the white marble floor, between his fists pressed down tight against the bare stone. Hands that hadn’t been able to save. That couldn’t protect. Hands forced to gather the earth, and throw it over the empty coffin of a boy dead before he had the chance to become a man.

 

He hated them, but could no longer move.  
He could no longer feel.

_He was numb._ Again. Tormented by his own agony, his desperation, and that grief so deep. Engulfed with no hope to escape by that all-encompassing smell of mud, sweat, rain, moss green from a sturdy trunk and soft warm bread, like a sweet curse it bounded him, depriving him of his senses. _He had failed_. As a child, he had already failed. The only trial, in fact, that he should never have failed. He was the youngest of them, D'Artagnan, Charles, but shouldn't a brother watch the back of his kin? Don’t they protect each other? And why, _for the love of God,_ was he a Musketeer, if he hadn’t be able to save his Andrée?

 

He was sobbing so hard he could barely breathe, by now, and he hated himself again and again for this weakness. Because what's a tear if not a way to bring relief to those who cry? To purge a body from the poison injected into the flesh by failures? If not a witness to their inability to accept their well-deserved punishment?

 

He hated himself so much that it took time, to D'Artagnan, to feel the warmth anew. That of Aramis’ arms, his heart in his mouth as he held the boy close to his broad chest, his arms hugging him so tightly that he shook with every sob that tore from that young throat, trying desperately to anchor him and bring him back from the ocean of pain that was so obviously submerging him.

Of Porthos’ cheek, resting atop their pup’s head, in a rare, and therefore so precious, display of weakness. His eyes tightly closed to chase away the sight of the lad so crumbled in pain.

Of Athos’ hands, at his side, as always, strong, fierce Athos, holding him protectively like a never-yielding support, steady, safe, unwavering, as if nothing could ever break him. Bend him, hurt him until he bleed, tore him apart, maybe. But break him? No. Never.

 

And he didn’t even try to fight them, D'Artagnan, as soon as he felt them with him. He should have, he didn’t deserve their warmth that, as the thicker of blankets, was now chasing away the cold he felt in his soul. He should have, because he was despicable, a coward, an inept. But he couldn’t. Because he felt numb, and broken, and he was shivering so hard that he knew, with absolute certainty, that soon he would dissolve into nothing. And he didn’t deserve to shatter, either. No. He was the last D'Artagnan alive, and it was up to him to honor the dead. And to carry the weight of his sin.

 

They let him cry for a long time. Nestled in the protective circle of their arms, their shoulders, and their smells, so similar and yet so different from Andrè’s that he could almost erect a new barrier. They let him cry until he went limp, and then, without the need of uttering a single word, they moved as one man, raising the boy from the ground and then holding him firmly to guide him outside of that place of faith.

 

No one spoke. No one said anything. Not until they reached Athos’ lodgings, five minutes away from the garrison. Porthos then left in search of food and wine, while Athos and Aramis carried D'Artagnan inside the small building. Three candles were lit immediately to help the two Musketeers to take care of the youngest of them. They sat him, unconscious, on the bed, and they stripped him of his clothes quickly and efficiently, a dance honed by time and practice, a little ritual that concealed a huge amount of comfort. Finally, they laid him amongst the linen sheets smelling of soap, before positioning themselves at his sides, as if to physically banish the darkness that seemed to have imprisoned the boy.

 

“What’s wrong with him, Athos. He cried himself to unconsciousness” Aramis murmured tightly, stroking absentmindedly their Gascon’s forearm _, cold, so cold_ , with one hand, the other one moving to his forehead to measure his body temperature.

“I do not know, Aramis” Athos sighed heavily, his finger twisting D'Artagnan’s hair in regular movements, an unconscious gesture that he reserved for those times when his brothers were vulnerable.

“You think it's something that he has seen at the market this morning? He halted abruptly, and then he almost passed out in our arms” the marksman whispered, that he hated one thing above all, wait helplessly when his brothers were suffering.

“I doubt it” the Lieutenant offered, his chest seizing and his heart pounding as he remembered D'Artagnan’s voice begging this mysterious André for forgiveness. Alone, slumped to the ground, shoulders crushed by his violent sobs, and those candles the only source of light in the dark cathedral. Athos’ heart had stopped at that. Because… because in that one moment, he felt like he was looking into a mirror.

 

Porthos joined them half an hour later with his arms loaded with food and bottles of wine, and it was the tinkling of the glass being placed on the small wooden table to wake D 'Artagnan.

Tired, exhausted even, despite he had just rested.

 

His head pounded fiercely, and his eyes were red and swollen, throbbing on his pale face like drums, not at all soothed by his sleep. Groggy from drowsiness and fatigue, at first he assumed he was injured in battle. It was the only explanation that could justify his presence on Athos’ bed, and that of his brothers at his sides. Moreover Aramis, as he saw him conscious, brought a cup to his lips filled his disgusting medicine… so, it was obvious to connect his discomfort to some mission that he couldn’t remember, right?

 

But then, he caught the Musketeer’s eyes. And his memory returned.

 

“Hush D'Artagnan, calm down, you're safe now” the Spaniard soothed immediately, as soon as he saw the lad panicking, leaning forward just enough to encircle the boy's face in his strong hands. A warm touch, safe, that the Gascon could recognize blindfolded, and somehow his body responded, because he felt again his muscles relax.

 

Only then he noticed that his other two brothers were standing behind the Spaniard, without even pretending to hide their concern.

 

Guilt was sudden.

 

But D'Artagnan swallowed it forcefully, for he didn’t want to worry them more.

“I'm fine” he stuttered hoarsely, rising unconsciously his left hand to his temples, while the other pushed against the mattress to help him regain a sitting position.

Porthos rolled his eyes, but his hands were already pouring a glass of wine for his younger brother. “Drink, you'll feel better” he said, frowning when Aramis had to cover D’Artagnan’s hand with his own to keep the glass steady, for the pup shook too much to bring the wine to his lips alone.

Athos, meanwhile, sighed, wondering absentmindedly if the boy believed them blind. “D'Artagnan ... we do not want to force you, but we are brothers, and we would be honored if you would confide to us what ails you so”

 

The Gascon choked on his wine.

 

Alarmed, Athos handed him a handkerchief, and D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed when, holding it to his face, he felt, in addition to the smell of fresh laundry, the typical scent of his mentor. He closed his eyes, then, considering what to do.

Could he lie to them?  
Could he leave, and let them worry?  
Could he refuse to speak with the men he considered brothers?

No, of course not. Even if he feared they would judge him a coward, a disgrace, a vermin, he could never turn his back to them.

Because in the end, the men he now called brothers, well, they had shared so much with him. The shadows of their past, that come darkness, too often hunted them as nightmares, an army of ghosts ready to torture them. But also their hopes, theirs souls, their experiences, all those facets that made them the men they were. An intricate chiaroscuro of honor, devotion to justice, bloodied hands that lived day by day looking, among the folds of a sky blue cloak, for some sort of redemption. Of happiness. Of belonging.

 

So he breathed in his mentor's scent again, trying to find there the courage he needed to open his mouth. To follow his heart.

 

He didn't realize, back then, that his decision was also a turning point. The moment when he submitted to his brothers the keys to his heart.

 

“Drink with me” the said, allowing himself a last short breath before meeting his brothers’ eyes.

They almost argued as soon as they saw him move with the intention of leaving the bed, but then they spotted something in his irises, and they restrained themselves, simply standing with him to support him without a word.

 

“Drink with me” D'Artagnan repeated solemnly, as soon as they were seated at the table, regardless of the sweat that beaded his pale forehead to fill their glasses with Armagnac and then lift his own, in a clear toast. “To André D'Artagnan, who would have turned 25 today. Brother, I miss you. And I won’t forget you” he added in a whisper, swallowing his tears as he forced his voice to state out loud a promise that only his heart, before, had heard.

 

The three voices that chorused “To André D'Artagnan” were tinged with undisguised astonishment, and Porthos barely waited to swallow a mouthful of liquor before looking at their pup with obvious alarm. “Did you ‘ave a brother?”

 

Aramis discreetly kicked his shin, for tact was really a virtue on which the Musketeer should work harder, but D'Artagnan paid no mind to the bluntness of his question. Instead, he placed his now empty glass back on the table, to refill it along with their own.

 

As for Athos, he was staring at D'Artagnan like a man shot ten times in the chest.

 

“Older” the Gascon finally sighed, heedless of the tears that clouded his view again. Suddenly the weight he carried with him for so many years was too heavy to leave room for self-consciousness. He was barely able to speak and breathe at the same time, did it really matter if his brothers saw him cry? Soon they would know of his guilt, what could be worse than that? How could a few tears compete?

 

“What happened” Athos asked quietly, facing the Herculean effort to unlock his throat to formulate that question, grateful for Aramis’ hand that under the table firmly gripped his own.

 

D'Artagnan ran a hand over his face, and then, exhausted, dropped his head on the wall behind him, narrowing his tears filled eyes. “I wasn't able to protect him” he breathed then, finding himself prisoner again of that scent, as if his mind could conjure it at their request now, even if reality had a different aftertaste. For a second everything was sweet, and then bitterness took over.

 

“I failed him” he whispered, the lump in his throat so tight that he could barely make a sound, grateful, so grateful when Porthos on his left, and Athos on his right, put their hands on his own to ground him. His eyes were closed, and when he opened them, the world seemed more somber, as if someone had robbed the whole France of every source of light.

 

“André was always so full of life ...” he smiled, broken but sincere, a memory of the sound of their distant laughters that deceptively rejoiced his heart. “Mostly, he tried to keep me out of trouble” he admitted, breathing air and courage. “I didn’t really made it easy for him. We were very alike, even though he looked more like our father, we rode together, we trained with swords in the evening, after working at the farm, we even shared the same room. He taught me to read and write even before I started my education, because he loved to share with me what he knew. He was so patient” he sniffed longingly, looking down at his hands, his eyes tracing the small scar on his wrist, a memento of one of their stunts.

 

“I would have liked to know him” Aramis smiled, irises warm, compassionate, and a hint of nostalgia curling his lips, that made him appear even more beautiful.

D'Artagnan stared at him with a flash of surprise in his eyes, and then, only for a moment, his smile was sincere. “He was like you, somehow” he admitted, tightening a little his grip of Athos’ hand, which held his own on the table, and throwing a grateful look to Porthos, who still have one big, strong arm around his slender shoulders.

 

“He was impetuous but thoughtful, a bit reckless and a little wise, brave, always ready to put my needs before his own” he grinned softly, chuckling when two of the Musketeers complained about the “reckless and impetuous” part of the description.

 

“You were alike, too” Athos deadpanned, pouring him more wine. D'Artagnan accepted it gratefully, even more so for the protective glance that his mentor gave threw over the bottle of wine.

But then D’Artagnan turned sober again, and a solitary tear slid down his cheek.

 

“Our mother had died a few months before ... when Father came back to the farm, one evening, saying that André had disappeared” he stated hoarsely, clenching his fists to find the strength to keep talking. “They had been looking for him, dozens of people…for hours, but then-”.

He had to stop. To breath. To wipe his tears with his fist. He could do it. He could confess. Finally. “… then they found a single boot, abandoned on the riverbank. It-it was winter, it was dark, and there was no need to tell me that probably he had fallen into the water, and the water had washed him away. They never found his body, but I knew well enough that part of the river, I often went there with André”.

 

He was crying, now, but he couldn’t stop talking anymore. For the life of him, he just couldn’t. Even if he was half sobbing, half stammering. “I should have gone with him that afternoon, but I was sick, and Father had forbidden me to go out. So ...”.

 

D'Artagnan swallowed, his mouth bitter with the tears that now were freely trickling down his face, marked by fatigue and remorse. But in a burst of hatred towards himself he curled his lips, resolute to force himself to go on. Even if he was ashamed to admit out loud his failures. “So, no one was there to catch him when he fell. To save him ...”. He gritted out through his clenched teeth, his fists now white, trembling with tension.

 

“I left him alone, and he ... it was my fault. _It was my fault._ If I had insisted on following him, if I had persuaded him to stay with me, if I pretended to be sick to force him not to leave... I knew that the river was dangerous, I knew that it was freezing cold outside, I knew it would soon be dark but I never knew how to stand against André when he smiled. Even if I felt I had to. It was my fault” he sobbed, unable to hear, to see, to understand anything anymore, apart from his grief. There was only his father now before him, his rain-soaked coat and his lips numb, looking at D'Artagnan with death in his eyes.

 

_"Your brother is gone, Charles. He’s dead. He will never come back".  
_ _And then the door of his office slamming, his voice curse God and men, and Charles, alone, standing in the kitchen of the small farm to watch the candlelight projecting long shadows high on the walls of bricks and wood, his throat tight with a pain from which he would never heal._

 

And the cold enveloped him as it had captured him then.

But those hands were there too. So tight, as if he was the one in danger of falling.

Only later D'Artangnan realized that his face was imprisoned in the crook of Athos’ neck, Aramis knelt at his feet and Porthos heavy at his side, eyes veiled with pain.

He sobbed.  
It happened too often lately.

 

He felt so ashamed of that weakness, he didn’t deserve their comfort, their affection, didn’t their hear what he said, about his fault?

 

“I am a coward, a coward” he sobbed, his stomach twisted with bile and shame. “I am a vile coward"

“Hush D'Artagnan, calm down, it is not the truth” Athos soothed, using a hand to tilt his chin enough to wipe his tears with his thumb, his pale eyes oh so understanding.

But the Gascon shook his head, struggling to break free from those loving hands.

“No, it's t-the truth. I n’ver had the c-courage to tell Father that-that André had d-died because of me. I was too a-ashamed. I mis-sed him too much. I couldn’t ev-en bring m’self to speak. F-for weeks I was unable to utter a single word, forcing my father to care for me, after-after all the pain that had fallen upon him, after... but I couldn't. When I tried, my v-voice got stuck in my throat, and even after, I didn't ... I didn't-”

 

“D'Artagnan, calm down” Aramis tried again, sternly this time, squeezing his wrist so hard that it hurt. But the pain startled him, forcing him to take a breath, his vision was blurred with panic. “Calm down” the Spaniard repeated soothingly, his face serious, now, and his gaze as protective as Porthos’ hand, drawing circles on his back.

 

D'Artagnan breathed again, his heart in his throat, words pouring from his very heart. “You blame yourself because you couldn’t protect Thomas, Athos, but it wasn’t your hand that caused his death. You couldn’t know, you couldn’t ever predict that that woman was a murderess. How could you? How should have you imagined that your wife, the love of your life, would do something like that? You did not ignore a danger of which you were aware. _You_ did not turn your head away” he stressed, eye to eye with a shocked Musketeer.

“D'Artagnan” Athos exhaled.

But the Gascon shook his head, fast, swallowing a burst of dizziness and more tears.

“ _You_ would have never allowed Andrè to leave alone. _You_ would have protected him”.

 

“ _Enough_ ” Athos thundered, getting a hold of the pup’s hunted face with both of his own trembling hands, his eyes wild but still fierce, blazing so savagely that he looked like he could burn the whole France down. “Enough, D’Artagnan”, the older Musketeer repeated sternly, incapable, unable to accept that his protégé, his younger brother, was torturing himself in that manner. Bearing in his chest the same darkness that devoured a good part of his own life, with its long, deadly fingers ready to ravish him at any time. “It was _not_ your fault”.

 

“André wouldn’t want to see you torture yourself like this” Porthos nodded seriously, resting his big hand on the lad’s neck to comfort him. “And neither would Thomas” he added, aiming a knowing glare to Athos as well.

“You have to let go, my brothers” Aramis soothed, clutching the boy’s hand with his own, so warm and safe that D’Artagnan’s eye fluttered shut.

 

But then his heart rumbled again in his chest.

 

And Athos eventually perceived that resonance. One of the countless reasons that bound him to their Gascon. One of the strings that tangled together their hearts, alike, too alike to each other to miss the remorse beneath his little brother’s silence. And he knew that no blessings, assurances, kind words of comfort could ever convince him that no, _damn it_ , he wasn’t at fault for his brother’s death! To Fate belonged the hand responsible of that unfair, abhorrent sacrifice, the eternal Lady who smirked to the miseries of men, but that sometimes could be as benevolent as the sun on a winter day.

 

So he said nothing.  
He simply embraced him.

 

And so did Aramis, with his cheek pressed to their Gascon’s thigh but his arms spread to encircle both D'Artagnan and Athos, his dark curls melted honey in the candlelight, and his eyes calm, aware that that moment of silent communion would be worth a thousand words.

And Porthos too, lifting his chin from the pup’s head to hug him protectively, his fingers brushing Aramis’ curls, and the nape of Athos’ neck.

 

And finally, finally their scent was stronger, stronger than anything else, for D'Artagnan.  
And he knew that his guilt would perhaps never abandon him. Nor the pain. Or his sorrow. That burning hatred he felt towards a life that had robbed him of so much.

But his brothers’ arms grasped him so tightly that for every sob that tore from his heart he breathed gunpowder, leather, soap, cheap wine, sweat and flowers (yes, still there, bless Aramis).

 

A strange mix, certainly, but D’Artagnan felt it fill immediately his own heart, branding his stomach with fire, dispelling the venomous fog that had imprisoned his senses. Chained his soul.

It was like a rebirth, somehow.  
Wiser, better, more… human.

A wrinkle of pain that he would never be able to completely chase away still darkened his hazel eyes, of course. But for the first time in many years its smell was reduced to a throbbing melancholy.

 

He could breathe.

For that evening he had gained one more scent to secure between his mind and heart. And D'Artagnan, although his face was still streaked with tears, could not help but smile when he realized that it was no longer his own willpower alone to stand as a lifeline when around him everything turned suddenly dark. _No._

 

He had those men.

Those brothers.

Those scents.

 

Blessed be the day when he challenged Athos to a duel. Because from that day on, D'Artagnan was no longer alone.


	13. Owned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There were few words, in this world, that Porthos loved more than anything else, and Choice was one of them".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends, here I am with another chapter, O for Owned! This one is a bit different, it’s not properly a “five times someone did something”, but it’s still made of different parts, as you’ll see. Please, as always, it would be my pleasure to know what do you think about it, so don’t be shy, ok? A couple of days ago I realized in Italy we often use a slight different alphabetical order, so I thought to tell you that you’ll find some letters later in the collection (like J or K). But don’t worry, I’ll use them all!
> 
> First thing first, however, let me thank all of those who took a minute to leave a review, kudos or to add it to their bookmark list, and everybody who keep reading what I’m able to share. Authors especially know how important it is to receive some kind of feedback! It really helps, no kidding, to keep writing, I am so glad for all your precious support and by now you’re so many I can’t really believe it! (I’m bowing like Aramis, but – I must warn you – my grin isn’t quite like his :D) Thanks, thanks, thanks! I couldn’t do this without you!!!
> 
>    
> Aaaaand, back to Paris! Ciak!

 

_“Not all those who wander are lost”  
_ (J.R.R Tolkien)

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

There were few words, in this world, that Porthos loved more than anything else, and Choice was one of them. Slaves didn’t have any choice, for instance, nor poor, or most of the men and women from the Court of Miracles. Henceforth, Choice, for him, also meant freedom, independence, liberty. Choice was a long, sinuous road that disappeared among evergreen trees in a blue summer day. And Choice was also what held together his little – but cherished - family, Athos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan. They were a family by choice, rather than blood, but a brotherhood deeper than life itself, hands clasped together to face light and darkness, joy and sorrow, till death do them part.

Choice was the rope that bound them all together even before they realized they would become a family. The tie that, for the first time in his life, made him feel really and truly _owned_ , in a way that made his chest burn with fondness, and affection, and that overwhelming need to be tied up heart and soul even more tightly. Owned by Athos and Aramis, first, and then by D’Artagnan too, even if, due to his skin color, he should despise that word. For any man, it meant property, like a house, a horse, or a _slave_. But for him, since he became one of the Inseparables, it had acquired another meaning entirely. Owned meant Aramis’ hands stitching him up after he got injured in a fight. It was Athos’ protective and watchful stare as they rode together. It was D’Artagnan’s arm circling his shoulders, warm and honest, as he tentatively hugged him his affection. _Yeah, more or less puppy – stile._

 

He laughed out loud, Porthos, as he remembered the first time D’Artagnan had hugged him, so much that Athos, the only one still awake around the campfire, tossed him a baffled glare.

“Sorry”, the big man shrugged, “I was thinking 'bout the first time the pup hugged me”.

Athos didn’t really acknowledged his brother’s words, but he didn’t stifle the small twitch of his lips either, as he remembered that one morning almost one year ago, the weight of the chains that had bound his wrists to a wall facing a firing squad still fresh in his mind.

 

 

-*-*-

 

 _A week after his rescue Treville had sent them on a mission, nothing too hard, but since they were_ rarely _lucky, they had stumbled upon a group of bandits as they were returning to the city. Mostly untrained men, really, but they outnumbered them 4 to 1, so one of them was able to land a lucky hit on Porthos, injuring his side._

_Adrenaline kept him focused on his opponents even though his body could feel the searing pain that was making his whole flash throb, blood steadily dampening his clothes in a hot, wet touch that Porthos felt both ominous and strangely reassuring. He planted his fist in one of the bandit’s throat, knocking him out, and without stopping he turned with a grace unexpected from someone his size to twirl his heavy blade in the gut of another one, effectively rendering him harmless. His vision swam as his feet moved forward to intercept the rapier aimed at Athos’ back, but he still stopped it, ripping it forcefully from the bandit’s grasp before using the hilt to put him down._

_And finally, he took a deep breath, scanning their surroundings to assess the situation._

_The clearing where they were ambushed was littered with bodies, both dead and unconscious, and a few steps away from him, Athos was already sheathing his sword to start and collect the bandits who survived._

_On the left, D’Artagnan was back to back with a grinning Aramis, his brow furrowed in concentration but his deep brown eyes enlighted with the same fire that burned deep in Porthos’ very soul. The flames that made soldiers what they were, fed by courage, loyalty, adrenaline from the battle. A powerful mix, that made the Inseparables feel alive every time they had to fight. Oh, they despised violence for itself, of course. But they were warriors, and they were made of battles too._

_“Are you all right?” the Spaniard inquired, turning his keen eyes on D’Artagnan to check on him swiftly, conducting as a thorough examination he could without undressing the boy, and then on Athos, who just nodded his assent, busy at disarming their prisoners before they had the chance to recover._

_Porthos started to answer too, but then… it hit him suddenly. Like a lightening. One moment he felt that fire rush in his veins, hotter than his own blood, and the next one… he simply crumbled._

_His whole world dimmed as soon as he felt his knees buckle, a dark shade of gray that enveloped trees, grass and men, muffling sounds and mixing odors in a vortex that threatened to engulf him. Next thing he knew, his cheek collided hard against the soft mantle of green that covered the winter-cold ground, a low, keening sound erupting from his throat as the fall jostled his injury, making his whole world hurt._

_"PORTHOS!”_

_Three voices as one all but shouted his name, and as soon as he took a deep breath to keep from losing consciousness he felt strong hands grabbing him with the utmost care, turning him on his back with his head propped on… ah yeah, Athos’ lap._

_His eyes rolled in his skull as he tried to lift his suddenly-too-heavy eyelids, but as he made a move with his hands to grab onto… something - he couldn’t really think of what, he just had to hold onto something in the hope that his head would stop spinning - another set of hands grasped him, keeping him from bothering his wound. Aramis was obviously prodding enough for both of them._

_“Don’t” D’Artagnan soft, baritonal voice murmured, unconsciously tightening his light grip on the Musketeer’s arm without being able to hide his concern. “Aramis is going to make you feel better in no time”._

_And Porthos couldn’t help himself. His lips turned upward. Because it was in moments like that that he was reminded of how a boy their young new friend still really was. Barely 20 years old, quite beardless – for Porthos’ amusement – he was a tough little pup, loyal to a fault, with a touch of recklessness that the bigger Musketeer really appreciated in him – but even if he tried to act like a man, he was just a young lad recently orphaned, and in a desperate_ need _of brothers. Oh, he was a proud little guy, too, so he tried really hard to stifle his needs, he tried not to show how much he liked it when one of them patted his back or praised him, or just included him in some activity or another. But he couldn’t. His puppy eyes were too much like windows to his young heart, to be able to hide what he felt. At least, in Porthos’ opinion._

_That’s why Porthos fought pain and dizziness tooth and nail to manage a gasp that vaguely sounded like “aon’ wo’ry… w’lp”, rolling his barely-open eyes from Aramis, who was uncapping a bottle of brandy to clean up a nice three-inch gash in his flesh, to the worried Gascon. He made it, but for a heartbeat. The moment he saw D’Artagnan meet his torment-filled gaze, grimacing as if the lad had tried – and failed - to smile encouragingly, the liquor poured on his side, and with a loud growl, a few profanities and more hands holding him down, his world dimmed again, and this time he collapsed._

_When he came to it was much later, the sky was already pitch black, with no moon to enlight the heavy blanket of the night. He could see a silver of the endless obscurity that were the darkest hours of the day from the small window just in front of him, nestled in an ebony, wooden wall, glowing gold due to a small candle resting on the table placed just under the open glass. His mind felt fuzzy, and it was hard to remember what had happened to him, why he was hurting as if his side was on fire, and who was talking in hushed tones just a few steps away from him._

_He had to turn his head, and when he managed it, despite the agony, he smiled. Athos and Aramis were sitting around another bigger table, circular, with three legs resting on a worn and dusty floor, nursing glasses of wine as the flames danced on their faces. They looked tired, their shoulders were hunched and even from that distance, he could see dark circles under their eyes… but that’s not what made him smile in the first place._

_It was D’Artagnan, the new addition to their group. Slumped beside him on a chair with his face nestled in his arms on the bed, as if he had tried to stay awake for Porthos, but exhaustion had claimed him suddenly, knocking him out like a punch._

_The Musketeer flinched, swallowing a groan as his muscles tensed, but he still moved his hand until his fingers were able to tangle with the Gascon’s dark tresses, and absentmindedly he stroked them quietly, moved beyond words by that obvious display of utter concern. He wasn’t a man who took it for granted, Porthos. In fact, he wasn’t used to be the on the receiving end of that particular emotion, considering the color of his skin. Of course, over the years he had served as a Musketeer, he had grown to be well respected among his comrades, he made friends, too. He wasn’t the mongrel anymore._

_Well, Aramis and Athos had merit in this, Porthos thought fondly, but that was another story._

_Still, it happened only a handful of times before to be trusted so immediately, so easily. To be accepted so readily by someone who went as far as risking his own life to try and protect him. And suddenly he felt his throat knot with emotion as the warmth emanating from D’Artagnan’s body penetrated his own skin, and his hand stilled, allowing Porthos to feel the beat of his new little brother’s heart._

_“Porthos”_

_The youngster awoke at that, dark, sleepy orbs that blinked tiredly as the lad lifted his head to look at the Musketeer, unsure if the hand he felt burrowed through his hair was real, or a dream. But as soon as his eyes met those of the bigger man he straightened abruptly, his smile so obviously relieved that Porthos felt that knot in his throat tighten painfully._

_“You’re awake! Aramis, Athos, Porthos is awake!”_

_But he didn’t wait for their reply._

_He stood so fast Porthos’ head spun, and then he threw himself on the bed, his arms already encircling the Musketeer’s neck, lifting him neatly from the mattress in his rush to hug him fiercely, as if he had feared he’d never get the chance to hug the man again in this life._

_And yeah, Porthos flinched, the abrupt movement jarring his wound, but he paid the pain no mind because the next instant he found his face firmly nestled in the crook of his little brother’s neck, held so tightly that the air was squeezed out of him._

_“Careful, little brother” Aramis chuckled, resting his hand on Porthos’ shin, his deep brown eyes enlightened with relief._

_“Mind his injuries” Athos admonished too, but there was no real heat in his words. And, moreover, his lips were undeniably tilted in what looked suspiciously like a smile._

_Porthos couldn’t see them, though, so close D’Artagnan was holding him, but he felt them near the bed, warmth spreading in his chest like burning flares every time they showed him their devotion. But, above all, he felt awed at their Gascon’s response to his injuries. Yes, it was the first time the whelp had seen him lose consciousness, but he hadn't thought D’Artagnan would react so… strongly._

_“I’m fine, lad” Porthos murmured finally, recovering enough from his stupor to return the embrace, as hard as he could. “I’m fine”._

_D’Artagnan nodded, releasing him with his cheeks betraying his embarrassment at his obvious display of affection, but also terribly relieved._

_“I’m glad” he simply stated, before moving aside to let Aramis and Athos get closer to their brother._

_“Really?” Aramis smirked, beaming when he saw the Gascon flush crimson at his tease_

_“Aramis” Athos sighed, failing to smother another tilt of his lips_

_“Are you hungry, Porthos? I could go and fetch some food” D’Artagnan offered helpfully, resolving to ignore their marksman’s jabs._

_“Thanks lad” the Musketeer nodded, still pleasantly dazed by the boy’s reaction_

_“Don’t forget the wine” the sharpshooter reminded him, winking._

_“Of course” D’Artagnan grinned, rolling his eyes before leaving the room in a hurry._

_“So… an endearing puppy, isn’t he?” Aramis rhetorically remarked, sitting on the bed with his back propped against the bedpost_

_“Shut up” Porthos retorted, trying, and failing, to stifle a chuckle. But the truth is… of course he liked that young lad, he had helped clear Athos’ name, he was brave, and talented, even if he was still wet behind the ears. And yeah, he was growing fond of him, he was quite nice to have around. But he would never have believed that D'Artagnan would prove so careless of the color of his skin, as if there was no color, or race, to render them different from one another._

_Yet, now that he came to think about it, the Gascon had never shown reluctance to spend time with him. He had never hesitated, never let his gaze linger on Porthos for too long, if not for concern, wonder, or to share a smile. And who knows, perhaps it was then and there that Porthos really, truly accepted D'Artagnan. Not like a lost soul passing by he felt the need to help. As a friend. Or rather, a brother._

_As a member of that small but solid group he proudly called family._

 

-*-*-

 

 

“May I ask you, gentlemen, why you’re all being this loud?”

 

Aramis was smiling as he lifted his curly head from his dark leather saddlebag, opportunely converted into a pillow to make the hard ground a little more comfortable. Obviously, he was awake for some time, since he looked like he knew exactly what Athos and Porthos were talking about. Sure enough, no reply was granted, instead, the older man just rolled his eyes in kind exasperation.

“Wine?” Athos offered, extending the half-filled bottle to his younger brother as Porthos rekindled the fire around which they were resting

“My thanks” the sharpshooter nodded, grabbing the bottle and bringing it to his lips. “So, sappy time?"

“Speak for yourself, _dearie_ ” Porthos grinned unabashedly, throwing him a glove that Aramis caught way before it could hit him in his handsome face.

 

“Children” Athos sighed, rolling Heavenwards his winter eyes, gleaming gold for the flames that now were dancing jauntily at his feet.

 

“Porthos hush, you’ll wake the pup” Aramis grinned impenitent, shooting a glance at the boy, asleep at his side with a raven lock hiding his closed eyelids, and a hand resting affectionately on his beloved pauldron.

He’ll never stop to pet that thing, the marksman thought fondly, reaching with his hand to tuck the blanket more firmly under the lad’s chin.

“Mother hen” Porthos smirked, moving to lean his back against his own saddlebag, positioned right behind him.

 

“Don’t make me start, Porthos” Aramis retorted, mischief obvious in his eyes as his lips folded knowingly

“Really, Aramis?” Athos remarked, calmly sipping wine from another bottle, scrounged out from who knows where.

Aramis parted his lips to probably form a retort, but a look from both his brothers had him huff in exasperation. Well, he couldn’t really contradict them.

It had been for that protective side of him, his watchfulness, his care for others’ well-being, that his friendship with his brothers was born at the beginning, to morph, later, into something that ran deeper than his own soul. Years had passed since then, yet those were among the memories he most cherished in his life.

Easy to crack a smile, but not always unfeignedly, easy to stole a kiss, but almost never open - heartedly, easy to reach for his sword, because he hated injustice, Aramis knew he was a living contradiction. A devout soldier of love, a libertine who respected life. He lived with passion because he knew that death was only a step beyond the curve, and oftentimes his mind was a whirlwind of voices, colors, and warmth, from which he could not, nor would ever be free.

But that was what tethered him to the Earth, even when the world seemed to spin in an uncontrolled whirl. It was his heart, devoted flash and soul to his family by choice.

The family to whom he belonged.

 

It felt like being _owned_. The first time, I mean, he met their eyes.

 

 

-*-*-

 

_First out of the three men to join the regiment, Aramis was well-known and loved by all the Musketeers when Porthos entered for the first time the garrison of the King's Guard. Aramis wasn’t there that day, he was on a mission with Marsac, Pierre, Doucet, and a couple of other soldiers, so he didn’t personally get the chance to witness to the scene. But Porthos knew without a doubt how the other men, or most of them, at any rate, had watched him. Tall, powerful, with a proud chin and strong shoulders, but the slaves’ color of skin, stepping into an arena, the courtyard of the Musketeers, that was mostly colonized by the seconds or thirds sons of the Parisian’s aristocracy. Therefore, it hadn't mattered if Treville himself had recruited him. He was black, and they were white._

_Those looks, he couldn’t forget them._

_The murmurs behind his back, even when Porthos could hear them._

_Aramis, as soon as he returned from his mission, caught them too._

_And those scorned smirks._

_The Spaniard had hated them right away._

_So, Aramis hadn’t laughed the first time he had seen his brother shoot, big hands struggling to reload the weapon since back at the Court he usually didn’t have gunpowder or muskets._

_He didn’t grin when he realized that, with the sword, Porthos had still much to learn._

_But he had applauded louder than anyone else when he the bigger men had knocked flat out five of his comrades one after another, without even the barest drop of sweat moistening his forehead._

_So loudly, actually, that Porthos himself had stared at him in obvious bewilderment, mainly because Aramis did not hesitate to offer him a cup of wine._

_“Nice fight, my friend. I shall buy you a drink to celebrate” Aramis had smiled, just bowing his curly head and opening his arms._

_“Thanks” Porthos replied, positively baffled by the exuberance of the unfamiliar man, his black opal irises staring at the Spaniard as if he was waiting to be fooled._

_Aramis didn't flinch under that strict glare, even if something thick curled in his stomach at the thought of how that young man was being treated by his comrades, and without hesitation, he had offered Porthos his hand. “My name is Aramis”_

_The recruit shook it warily. “Porthos”._

_And as their hands clasped together, Aramis had felt ... something. A pull, of some kind. As if he was to belong to that would-be-Musketeer, eventually, as if his very soul wanted to show him what Fate had in store for him._

_It didn’t take long, for Aramis, to realize that his soul was right._

_Furthermore, it was that same charitable spirit, his sensibility, that had him tied immediately to Athos, the other outcast of the regiment. Treville was the one that introduced the current Lieutenant to Aramis and Porthos, of course, therefore some of the credit went to the Captain. But ... the rope that had bound them, the three men, a stronger than the Earth family, was an ocean deep resonance between kindred spirits. Somehow, they had seen the merciless faces of Destiny and Fate, and tasted on their lips the substance of their own souls._

_Athos had struggled, though._

_Locked up in a prison built with agony and grief, whose bars were a maze of memories and regrets, firmly nailed to a paved ground of guilt so harrowing that it could devour guts and blood with relentless force, he had struggled._

_He had tried with all his might to keep them away. At arm’s length._

_At first he had regarded warily these friendly gestures - invitations to drink, to share bread, a pat on the back at the end of a mission - that Aramis and Porthos bestowed upon him day by day, captured by something that glowed in the depth of those ice-cold irises that coaxed them into try and breach that sky-high walls that segregated the former Comte’s heart._

_But they were Musketeers, they were two against one, and most importantly, they were Aramis and Porthos. Athos had never had much chances._

_So he had tried with evasive maneuvers. He had attempted to physically shove them away. To hiss, like a cobra, ready to spit his poison._

_Useless. All his endeavors proved futile, it was like staunching a river with bare hands._

_And then…._

_Then a troop of twenty-two Musketeers left for a training exercise in Savoy, with twenty of them becoming ghosts._

_And something from all that red, haunting, petrifying blood, had sprouted._

_Athos and Porthos rode nonstop day and night to reach Aramis, as if they could hear their brother’s call, forcing their bodies far beyond their strength to answer to that silent plea._

_They had gathered him in their warm arms to remove him from the snow as he looked more like a ghost than a man, begging, praying, whispering for Aramis to not give up, “please brother, fight, come back to us”._

_Athos had no longer left them after that._

_He had willingly surrendered, his sword laid at Aramis' and Porthos' feet, and with his head bowed low he had allowed them to bind his hands in chains, without ever asking for the key back._

_He submitted to the strength of their affection, after months and months of siege, trying as hard as he could to parry their assaults to his prison of pain, each and every one run with relentless determination._

_And when Aramis, for the first time, opened his eyes to face a post-massacre world, his muddled mind still full of light-blue bloodied capes, and sharp-clawed crows biting into a brother’s flesh, he had understood. He had felt, for the first time in so many days, the warmth seep through his bones again._

_In death, he had found a family._

_In death, he had felt – again, for the very first time – owned by someone, as if he belonged to them, and they to him, and he realized that he wasn’t a soul adrift anymore, no longer an unworthy spirit escaped to his deserved fate._

_“Here you are”, Athos had said, sitting next to his bed, a bottle of Armagnac close to his hand._

_Aramis had blinked. Two eyes the color of a hurricane stared at him so intensely that the marksman felt truly naked._

_But then Aramis had nodded._

_And Porthos had grinned._

_And never, since then, the marksman had felt alone._

_The real, real fulfillment, though, Aramis would have found it a few years later. He didn’t know, back then, that something was still missing in that haze of colors and faith that was his life, and obviously, he didn’t know what he was waiting for, or when that awaiting would end._

_But it happened._

_For him, it was on a winter morning that began with a cloudy sky that tasted like snow, and the rustle of sheets wrapped around his bare hips. He had stayed in bed longer than usual that day, because as he awoke from his sleep his mind had recalled the mad rush of the previous hours, a desperate race against time to save one of his brothers from death by a firing squad. And there, still safe in the warm glow that penetrated through the window of his modest Musketeer’s quarters, he had stopped to thank God for the kindness bestowed upon them. That D'Artagnan was there to help them when they had needed him, that the lad was a capable enough young man to assist them to solve the enigma that held, as a price, Athos’ life. That Porthos was the determination personified, and that their Captain had never failed in his support to his men. And then he prayed for Cornet and his comrades, killed and stripped of their uniforms in virtue of an absurd scheme built around treason and blood, but culminating - thank God - with salvation and life._

_Ended with a toast traded between the warm arms of a smoky inn surrounded by his brothers, and with that Gascon, to whom they all owed a great deal._

_But then, though, Aramis, as he remembered the night before, felt something sharp piercing through his chest. Barely an inch beyond his heart. With a gasp he turned his head, and there, resting on a wooden table, he saw that delicate piece of indigo fabric that enveloped his own pistol._

_Adele._

_And he sighed, Aramis. Because in his heart he knew he was in love._

_Perhaps he hadn’t loved her with the same desperation he felt when he fell in love with Isabelle, but it was love all the same that aching void that wrenched now his stomach, that chilled his skin like a cloud of grief and despair. Had she really chosen the Cardinal over him, Adele? And why wasn't he given the chance to - at the very least - say goodbye to her? Why she only left that pistol back, as a reminder of those moments of stolen love, hiding both from the world, and the mad violence that was the everyday life of a Musketeer?_

_He pulled hard at the sheets with his hand, his breathing harsh and fast, and moving them aside carelessly Aramis stood, reaching for the bowl placed just outside his window to wash his face. Another day awaited him, and suddenly he felt the strong need to be in the company of his brothers, in the hope to leave behind that blazing sorrow he felt beating in rhythm with his heart, and remember how to smile._

_So he dressed quickly, his curls still damp against his neck, and he left his quarters, striding purposefully toward the courtyards, his eyes immediately zeroing on the table the three of them usually occupied._

_It was still empty, but the Musketeer did not worry._

_Athos drank heavily the night before, therefore, he probably retired late, escorted home by an unyielding Porthos._

_Aramis could sympathize, especially since Traville gave them the day off._

_Nor it surprised him to find, as soon as he reached the yard, that boy, D'Artagnan, standing at the edge of the gates, his dark irises dancing here and there in search of a familiar face._

_Without really realizing it, the Spaniard’s lips tilted, and Aramis raised his hand in greeting, moving closer to the Gascon._

_“Am I early?” D'Artagnan inquired bashfully, accepting nonetheless the handshake offered by Aramis, his eyes taking in the courtyard still sparsely populated. Little did he know that the garrison was going to fill up only a bit later, for the morning call, around 9. Usually, that early, the Musketeer rested, because they finished the night patrol long after sunset, or to recover from the previous day's training, and rarely, shortly after the sunrise, the Guards were already occupying the tables in the courtyard._

_“Not at all" Aramis smiled anyway, inviting him with a nod to follow him up to the usual table. "I hope you were able to rest well”._

_The Spaniard doubted it, judging from the dark circles that marked the young Gascon’s face, making him look older than he was._

_“Yes, thank you” the boy lied, sitting down in front of Aramis, tilting his head and narrowing his gaze._

_It was with a start that Aramis suddenly noted that the young man was looking at him as sharply as the marksman was examining at the lad. As if in search of something. Baffled, the Musketeer parted his lips to ask the boy if he there was something wrong, but D'Artagnan preceded him._

_Leaving Aramis speechless._

_The boy's hand moved to cover the Musketeer's arm, and with sincere empathy he looked into the marksman's eyes, his brow furrowed in concern. “I know it's not my business to ask, but has something happened?”._

_It was rare, for anyone, to be able to astonish Aramis that much. The Musketeer considered himself a charismatic man, and that he was, especially since he was well educated. He had studied to be a priest, after all, and he loved reading, so he knew far more than many of his peers knew. However now, that young farm boy had succeeded where several others had failed. He was wordless. How could this stranger, albeit brave and talented with a sword, read him so easily? Him, Aramis? A Musketeer, and a man well versed in mastering the fine art of lying?_

_But it was more than that._

_What amazed Aramis all the more was what he saw in the depth of those young, honest eyes as soon as he met the Gascon’s gaze. A wide, and so rare, compassion. D'Artagnan, although they barely knew each other at all, was giving him is undivided attention, as if he really cared about the problems that plagued the Musketeer._

_For Aramis, in that right moment, it was like to see a glimpse of the boy’s soul. And what he perceived… awed him. So much so that he beamed, something warm running in his chest._

_“Only unpleasant news” he answered honestly, curious, more than he wanted to admit, to know how the boy would react to those words. He had just lost his father, he was obviously grieving, and yet here he was, ready to lend a shoulder to another man._

_“I'm sorry” D'Artagnan nodded, and his eyes… Aramis was awed all the more, as he saw that the boy really was sorry._

_It was then that he sensed that kind of a feeling .... The same murmur that had reverberated through him when his fingers gripped those of Athos and Porthos for the first time. It would take some time yet to understand that D'Artagnan was already part of them, that the three had become four, that the lad belonged to them as they belonged to him. But that morning, somehow, he had a taste - quick, like a flash in the night - of what it would have been._

 

-*-*-

 

 

“... Hello, Aramis? Are you still with us?”

The Spaniard started a little, abruptly regaining awareness of his brothers around him, and he withdrew his gaze from the flames, to deliver Porthos a smile.

“Of course” he confirmed amicably, exchanging a warm gaze with Athos, sitting two feet away, still with his wine firmly secured in his hand.

Porthos nodded sympathetically, guessing easily what the marksman remembered. The very first time he had felt accepted and welcomed, not just a comrade, but a pillar of that weird – but Inseparable – family. _Owned_ , in fact. By choice.

And who knows, maybe Athos foresaw it too, because he moved his arm to share his precious bottle, and then his eyes went to the Gascon, still peacefully asleep, the fourth of them, though for a long time they thought they would never need another brother. 

How D'Artagnan could sneak into that perfectly balanced group, Athos still could not really understand it. He knew the reason why he and his brothers become attached to him that fast. But how he did it, Athos didn’t know. Maybe because there wasn’t a real reason behind their ready acceptance of him. Maybe it was more like a multitude of instants, words, stares, gestures of affection that together ignited that unexpected fervor in them, both the need to protect that reckless boy, and guide him throughout this cold, unmerciful world. An unending number of remarkable deeds, which invariably led them to exchange between each other a surprised look.

 

Maybe _that_ was it.

 

D'Artagnan was there, now, a brother among brothers, due to his ability to amaze them, when they believed they had everything they needed to live. When they thought that nothing could surprise them anymore.

 

 

-*-*-

 

 

 

_It goes without saying, for Athos to accept the boy among their number hadn’t been easy at all. Right away D'Artagnan remembered him his beloved younger brother, Thomas, and, therefore, he had fought valiantly to keep the boy as far away as possible. That was a road he didn’t want to cross ever again. He couldn’t risk tearing apart his heart more than it already was, he couldn’t bear any more pain. Any more darkness. Any more cold. First he risked what was left of his soul as he surrendered to Aramis and Porthos, and now D'Artagnan too? No, he wouldn’t allow another boy to shred his defenses._

_Athos, of course, fought a losing war._

_Again._

_He could never win against D'Artagnan and his ability to bypass walls and barriers to make his way into other people's hearts and dig his own small place there, a lair he would guard with a true Musketeer's determination._

_He was helpless before that boy from Gascony that kept to surprise him, bearer of a heart as pure as a ruby in the dust._

_D'Artagnan had that fire in his eyes, as he straightened his back to meet his stare, arms crossed in front of his young chest, and chin jutted out, to – somehow – ostentate his confidence in his capability._

_“Trust me, Athos. I can do it”._

_The problem was… Athos did trust him, what choice did he have? But then ... when they couldn't find him .. When Porthos discovered that blood, that cursed night ... when they believed him dead, only to come across to him underground, rushing throughout that thick, heavy darkness that engulfed everything within those lost, forgotten tunnels.. ..._

_“So you are alive then?”  
_ _“I think so”._

_Relief was so strong, Athos back then could almost taste it. And it was bittersweet, for as soon as Athos could clearly take a look at the boy’s face, no words were left in his mouth. He looked so young, as he kneeled to watch Vadim die._

_“A good trick. It should have worked”  
_ _“It very nearly did”._

_And then his unconscious face, as Aramis tended to his injuries, his body black and blue from dirt and bruises, his wrist shredded by ropes, his face pale with fatigue and pain… Athos couldn’t understand, back then, the reason why he had felt so… devastated, as he stood beside the Spaniard like a sentinel to watch his brother’s hands work with unwavering eyes. Why those injuries wounded his shattered heart so much? Who was that Gascon, after all? Nobody, just a lost pup that followed them around in hope to belong. Nothing more._

_Still ..._

_Just a few days after that ordeal, Porthos ate spoiled chicken in a God-forsaken tavern. Consequently, Athos and Aramis had to spend the night holding their brother up to spare him from collapsing into the chamber pot in front of which he was kneeling, exhausted after incessant bouts of sickness. He could still see, as if it was just yesterday, Porthos’ strong arms trembling under the effort to keep himself upright, Athos and Aramis tightening their hold protectively, while the sharpshooter murmured a stream of soothing nonsenses to keep him grounded against pain. The sky was still dark, but the sunrise wasn’t far when someone knocked on Athos’ door. He remembered muttering something to Aramis, and then stand heavily to open the door, wondering what troubles could await them beyond his threshold._

_But it was D’Artagnan._

_“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve something that may help Porthos”._

_Athos was tired, it had been a very long night, he felt a growing headache pounding in his skull just above his left temple and he was in no mood to deal with lost puppies. Furthermore, he didn’t like the idea to let this lad see his brother at his worst, weakened by a sickness that still lingered in the room. But D’Artagnan, shuffling from one foot to the other, obviously hesitant and uncomfortable under the swordsman's scrutiny, waited patiently to be admitted, and the Musketeer found that he lacked the strength to send him away. He just stepped aside, even if he refused to acknowledge that small inner voice that told him to wait and see what the lad would do._

_Still, he moved, and D’Artagnan was able to set foot in his apartments, for the second time in so many weeks, and locate Aramis and Porthos still hunched on the floor._

_“D'Artagnan” the Spaniard nodded, obviously exhausted himself, his voice hoarse and his back hunched, his normally unruly curls hanging heavily to circle his pale face._

_“I’ve brought something that might help Porthos” the Gascon repeated, forcing himself to overcome his uneasiness and the awe he still felt when he was in the presence of those well respected Musketeers._

_“What” Porthos grimaced, sluggishly moving one hand to press onto his own aching stomach, his other arm – the one that Aramis kept around his own shoulders – the only thing that held him upright._

_“Something my mother gave to me when I was sick as a child”._

_Athos met Aramis’ eyes as he closed the door, following the boy as he moved toward the fireplace to revive the dying flames before producing a small bundle from his doublet._

_“What is it” Athos repeated offhandedly, as he crossed the room to join the Spaniard again, and help him move a – by then - barely conscious Porthos to the bed._

_“Herbs” D’Artagnan replied absentmindedly, as he found, near the hearth, a small jar to mix his concoction with water, and then placing it over the fire._

_Aramis parted his lips to ask the lad what kind of herbs, but as soon as he took a breath to speak Porthos groaned and fall limp into their arms, startling both Musketeers._

_“Porthos? Can you hear me, brother?” the Spaniard called, working in sync with Athos to lay the man on the thin mattress._

_“Aye” came the weak reply, as the Musketeer barely had the strength to part his lips_

_“Good. Don’t scare us like that” Aramis murmured kindly, exchanging a glance with a clearly concerned Athos, as they proceeded to cover their shivering brother with a thick blanket. “Rest if you can, you'll feel better in no time”._

_“Mh” Porthos moaned, incapable to even think, that poorly he felt. His stomach still clenched and unclenched painstakingly, and even if there was nothing left to throw up, his muscles spasmed atrociously, depriving him of the opportunity to control his own body, both cold and exhausted from that damn ordeal._

_“It's almost ready, Porthos” D'Artagnan promised, startling the three Musketeers, who, by then, had almost forgotten his presence in the room._

_Porthos, for the life of him, couldn’t muster a reply, and he didn’t care. He doubted that the lad could help him since Aramis couldn’t do anything more than arrange his blanket and hold his hand._

_So he ignored the boy, focusing on his breathing, in and out, slowly, instead, to fight another dry heave that threatened to drag him through the umpteenth wave of blinding pain._

_He felt like he could break at any moment now. His muscles were so tense he couldn’t stop trembling, his head was throbbing tortuously and even breathing was like swallowing broken glass and burning flames. As a child he was used to getting sick in the stomach, the food was always scarce in the Court, barely enough to keep him alive, and it wasn’t uncommon for them - Porthos, Flea, and Charon - to eat something sour, consciously choosing to face illness instead of an empty stomach. To brave sickness rather than starve to death._

_He was stirred from his thoughts when he felt D’Artagnan cross the room to join Athos and Aramis near the bed, in his hands something that smelled sweet and… pungent at the same time._

_“What is it?” Aramis asked, for the third time that night actually, barely finding the strength to turn his head and take a look._

_“Trust me” D'Artagnan replied, and then Porthos felt his warm and gentle hand reach for his neck, to lift his head from the pillow. A cup was brought to his lips, and as he tasted that mysterious concoction, he realized that the smell wasn’t so bad._

_“Drink, Porthos. I promise it’ll help”._

_By then, Porthos couldn't have refused even if he tried. He was unable to even lift his eyelids to look at their Gascon anymore. He felt so heavy he cannot move, speak, he barely knew anything at all beyond pain, and more pain. He was helpless. Hence, he just parted his lips obediently, hoping beyond hope that this stuff would finally chase the agony away._

_It tasted good._

_Sweet._

_It smelled of earth, and grass, and flowers. Honey. There was honey in it. And something stronger… but he didn’t recognize it._

_He drank, slowly, barely aware of D’Artagnan's other hand moving to dab his chin carefully with a handkerchief when few drops of his mixture escaped from Porthos’ lips, Athos and Aramis drawing nearer at that, probably as surprised by the lad’s consideration as he was._

_“Athos, could you bring one of those heated stones I put near the fire for Porthos?”_

_“Of course”, the Musketeer nodded, lifting an eyebrow at D'Artagnan ... thoughtfulness._

_He held Porthos' head with the utmost care, and even Aramis appeared amazed by how naturally the boy was taking care of their brother._

_Athos wasn’t wrong._

_The sharpshooter was so pleasantly stupefied that he did something he wouldn’t do in any other circumstance, and with anyone else besides his two brothers. He left Porthos' side, to tidy up the room a little. A display of trust that left Athos staring at him speechless._

_“I should dispose of this, and bring more water” Aramis said, shrugging calmly as he collected the chamber pot and, with a last, pleased glance, he left the room._

_Athos followed him with his stare, but he recovered quickly, proceeding to wrap one of the heated stones to bring them to Porthos._

_D'Artagnan took the bundle from him, and positioned it under the blanket, just nestled against Porthos’ stomach, making sure that the warmth reached the Musketeer. Then he put the cup on the bed table and he took place on a chair beside Porthos’ bed, resting his elbow on the pillow to start and rub the man’s temple with his nimble fingers._

_“It won’t take much. He’ll feel better soon” the Gascon murmured, pleased as he eventually saw the frown that marred Porthos’ face disappear, chased away by his gentle massage._

_“You’re full of surprises” Aramis murmured, stopping at D’Artagnan’s side to place a hand on the young boy’s shoulder in silent thanks._

_The lad’s lips tilted a little, obviously proud at the Spaniard's praise, but he said nothing, devoting all of his attention to the Musketeer asleep on the bed._

_His eyes were soft, but what made Athos relax was the glint he caught behind that kindness. He saw protectiveness, for Porthos. He recognized it immediately, for he often saw the same light in his brothers’ eyes too. It shocked him, to find it in that boy’s irises. It surprised him. Again. They met when, a few weeks ago? He didn't know anything about them, and they knew nothing about him, but… right there, right now, it was as if the boy… belonged. How could it be otherwise, since they were letting him take care of their brother?_

_It was… strange. For many had tried to become one of the Inseparables, every time without success. But D’Artagnan, in barely a month, had accomplished what many men, soldiers, guards, could not. He was there, with them, and by the look in Aramis’ eyes, he had already won the heart of one of them._

_Athos knew then and there that it was their fate to adopt that lost pup. That D’Artagnan would, one day, become one of them. Own their life, as they would own his one. Always the protector, the one who slept closer to the door, who fought with an eye on his brothers, who gained peace just by knowing them safe and sound, he could see at that precise moment how good the lad could be for them._

_He wasn’t wrong._

_Just a couple of minutes later, Porthos finally settled, his whole body relaxing for the first time in many hours, as the herbs chased away the pain. He felt tired, groggy, and so much relieved that he had to open his eyes, to thank the lad who had spent the night awake to bring him assistance._

_“Better?” D’Artagnan asked knowingly, smiling a little as his hands kept massaging Porthos’ scalp_

_“Yeah” the Musketeer answered, obviously peaceful, and at ease._

_“I’m glad” the pup replied honestly, flushing a little when Aramis tightened his grip on his shoulder in silent affection. “Sleep if you can, I’ll give you more tea as soon as you have rested a little”._

_“Thanks lad” Porthos sighed, already losing his battle against his eyelids._

_“Yes, thank you D’Artagnan,” Aramis said gratefully, relief pouring in his very words._

_“You’re welcome, Aramis” the lad grinned, raising his head to meet the Spaniard’s eyes only to frown, suddenly concerned. “You should rest too” he said, turning his head to include Athos in his speech since the man looked dead on his feet. “I’ll keep an eye on Porthos, but he’ll probably sleep for a few hours now. I promise I’ll wake you, should he become restless” he added, anticipating Aramis’ objections, from the look of the marksman’s face._

_Athos stifled a grin, as he nodded at his younger brother’s wise words. “Sleep Aramis, you’re exhausted”._

_Aramis looked torn, his red-rimmed dark irises moving from D'Artagnan to Athos, to Porthos. Surprisingly, it was again the Gascon to take the situation in hand. Making sure that the sleeping Musketeer was resting comfortably he stood up, gently grabbing the Spaniard’s arm to guide him toward the window._

_“What are you doing?” Aramis asked, puzzled, watching as D'Artagnan grabbed a bedroll forgotten in a corner of the room to lay it on the ground._

_The Gascon didn’t reply, but he patiently took hold of Aramis again, guiding him until he was sitting on the makeshift bed, the marksman made pliant both by bewilderment and fatigue._

_So dumbfounded, in fact, that he didn’t resist when the D’Artagnan took off his boots, and then helped him to lie down comfortably, blankets promptly draped over him to keep him warm._

_“Go to sleep. Porthos will be fine” D’Artagnan promised again, causing another tilt of Athos’ lips_

_“But…”_

_Aramis was buried under three thick sheets before he recovered enough from his astonishment to argue, and when the Gascon turned his attention on Athos, the Lieutenant just rolled his eyes, well aware that any objection would be futile._

_“Fair enough” he conceded instead, nodding to D’Artagnan and moving to sit on a chair near the table, his feet propped on a stool, and his back resting aginst the wall._

_It was the Gascon’s turn to look surprised, not everyone would succeed in getting obedience from two of the best Musketeers of France, and still stunned he walked over to Athos, handing him another spare blanket to ward off the chill of the night._

_Both Musketeers collapsed at once, and when Athos awoke, the sun was already high in the sky, a sign that it was just after midday. One look at the room occupants, though, Athos felt that strange sensation stir between his stomach and chest. Near the bed there was D'Artagnan, held in a one-armed hug by a grinning Aramis, his other hand resting lightly on a much more healthy, and obviously awake, Porthos._

_“You’re a blessing, whelp”_

_“I’m not a whelp, Porthos”_

_“Stop poking the pup, Porthos. He’s too tired to defend himself”_

_“Aramis!”_

 

-*-*-

 

 

 

“Could you please stop being so noisy? Someone here is trying to sleep”

“Aww, you woke up the puppy, 'Mis”

“Shut up, Porthos”

“I'm _not_ a puppy!”

“Children!”

Aramis sighed, trying - and failing - to stifle a grin. How he loved bantering with his brothers ...

“Go back to sleep, little one. We'll try to keep the noise to a minimum”

“But now I'm awake”

“Wanna help to fall asleep again?” Porthos grinned, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

Athos' mouth twitched. D’Artagnan should really learn how to stop pouting like a child.

“No need to threaten me” the boy mumbled sullenly, involuntarily holding his injured arm closer to his chest, his hand brushing the bandage that hid the stitches that kept his skin closed, after a musket ball had grazed him just a few hours before.

“Does it hurt?” Aramis – always the medic – asked, noticing the unconscious movement

“No” D’Artagnan replied, a bit too quickly to be convincing.

Aramis sighed, but there was an amused light in his eyes when he ordered the recalcitrant puppy to get closer to him so he could inspect the wound.

“Mphf ... this is your fault, Porthos” the lad muttered grumpily, shufflung toward Aramis while at the same time keeping a hold on his blanket with a face that was half belligerent, and half asleep.

Porthos grinned unrepentantly, but there was more affection than irony in his gaze.

By now, D'Artagnan was pretty much adept at recognizing the different gradations of light that animated his brothers’ eyes. The sparkle that shone in Aramis irises when he wanted to quarrel, the fire in Porthos’ dark opals when someone threatened his brothers, the quiet glow that chilled Athos’ eyes when he was preparing to fight. It was like watching the Earth move around the Sun, the golden hue of the midday hours, the rouge glint of the dusk, and the silver shade of blue that enlightened the sky when the twilight was hidden beyond a thick layer of clouds.

 

A trained eye could always tell what time of day it is.

 

He couldn’t even begin to convey how blessed he felt to be able to read his brothers so unerringly.

He had never felt like that. As a child he had had a few friends, of course, but aside from his father and his brother, no one had ever made him feel so included.

_Owned_.

 

As if his life was a piece of a big, lively puzzle, absolutely essential for the drawing to be complete. When he arrived in Paris to avenge Alexandre D'Artagnan’s death he had hardly believed that these three men, so strong, so united, so resplendent in their summer-sky capes, could want him. He had tried to stick to them, oh yes, even if the memory made him blush a little - D'Artagnan was an honest man, first and foremost to himself, and he had no difficulty in admitting how hard he had clung to those hands, roughened by many battles.

Initially he had believed that his efforts were in vain.

That he would be left alone, after all, to envy their bond from afar.

Because those Inseparables were so interwoven, so closely connected, that it seemed inconceivable to find, among them, room for someone else. He didn’t believe it was even possible to understand them, to really know them, to get known.

But, God knows how, it happened.

It hadn’t been sudden, nor they accepted him immediately.

But somehow D'Artagnan had managed to overcome the walls that hat kept at distance all those who, in the past years, had tried.

 

So blinded by the grief, and the need to find a place where he could fit, he was, however, that it took him a little while to realize that those walls were already quite behind him.

And that those strong hands were holding him as tightly as they could.

 

As it often happens when dealing with emotions, with souls to bare and hearts to unbind, the fear to be rejected is as strong as the desire to be accepted. And apropos of D’Artagnan’s case, he had needed many clues before he could afford to consider the possibility that – perhaps - the affection he almost immediately started to experience for those three Musketeer was reciprocated.

It took more than a hug from Porthos, more than a kind word from Aramis, and that look in Athos’ eyes as he found him alive while they chased Vadim. And then all those times when one of them rested a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging gently into his flesh to hold him up, as D’Artagnan’s steps faltered. As well as Porthos’ laugh, as a worried Aramis channeled his inner Athos to force the boy to take off his shirt, regardless of how many times D’Artagnan had tried to avoid being fussed over, “it’s barely a scratch, Aramis, really, I’m fine”. Or Athos' stern voice as he tirelessly trained him, always ready to extend his hand every time the Gascon fell to the ground.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he finally understood - beyond any doubt - that he had a family again. 

No longer an orphan from Gascony lost in a City known for her many secrets and many faces. It was more like a collection of moments, or maybe touches, that, who knows, probably Aramis’ natural instinct to seek for physical contact had rubbed on him, for, during the last year, he discovered that he was more a tactile person than he had ever believed. 

What he did know for sure, though, it was that his comprehension about the role he played in that group of three Inseparables men came after he collected instants like cobblestones in a sack, like stars in the sky. One might not have been sufficient to illuminate the night, but put together they could compete with the beauty of the Sun. Perhaps, though, if he flipped through the pages of his memory, there was one of this precious moments he could choose among his favorites. 

One of the first times he realized that, despite being a parentless child, if he were to die, someone would shed a few tears for him. That he was still a lad with something to lose, even though he was the last one left to bear the name D'Artagnan. Looking back, the Gascon smiled, failing to protest appropriately against Aramis’ fingers, that were (annoyingly but efficiently) prodding his wound.

  

 

-*-*-

 

  

_He must have hit his head as he fell, because the first thing that he was aware of, when he regained consciousness, was a pounding ache in his temple that grew increasingly atrocious as he recovered his senses. Apparently it was still daytime, judging by the reddish color that filled his line of vision, beyond his closed eyes, his lids heavy as if someone had sealed them with wax. Which it was of no help at all, since even that faint afterglow, that scarlet blur, still worsened his headache._

_Therefore, D’Artagnan instinctively moved his hand to shield his face from that blasted light. Or at least, he tried to. As his brain registered the soft contact between his hands and a smooth fabric, and the inconvenience to have a couple of pesky pebbles pressed against his back, he felt gentle hands grasp his wrist, and an indistinct murmur reached his ears._

_He tried to focus on it, without particular success - everything felt muffled, probably due to the blow he took falling to the ground - but he sensed that those voices (or it was just one voice? He couldn’t tell) wanted to persuade him not to move._

_Vaguely disconnected from reality he tried to mumble something in response, to convey to his mysterious interlocutor that he had understood the message, though, as he came to think about it, D’Artagnan was beginning to wonder where he was… Why his nose smelled a mixture of leather, wood and grass? What happened to the Musketeers?_

_Open his eyes, though, at the time still seemed a terrible idea - and in hindsight also attempting to speak – so he resolved to try and sharpen his other senses, in hope to gather, from the sounds around him, clues about what had befallen him._

_Those darn pebbles against his back suggested that he was probably lying on the hard ground, but obviously, something was shielding him from the dirt since he couldn’t feel, as he moved slightly his fingers, grass, nor terrain…_

_But then, as he was resigning himself to lift his eyelids and face a blinding headache, it was like a flash, and in a moment he remembered everything. The battle against those rebels in the depth of the Marzan's forest, days and days on a horseback from Paris, where rumors spoke of a rising revolt against the King. The musket shots, Porthos kneeling on the ground, dazed, the man with the gun, ready to shoot, if to Athos or Aramis he couldn’t tell, as they both were closely engaged in a swordfight with four men. And his decision to forfeit his position to stand and save them, killing the man before he could kill his friends._

_He heard Athos’ shout his name, Aramis’ frightened eyes as he caught sight of him, there, completely vulnerable to the enemy's attack…_

_D'Artagnan jerked, as if he could hear a musket release his ball again, and he scrambled to a sitting position so fast that his whole world went white, then black, and an excruciating pain grabbed him so hard that without being able to prevent it he blacked out again, positive that his skull was being split in two, and his side was set ablaze. Vaguely, as he was almost completely senseless, he registered strong arms - how many, he couldn’t tell - catch him as he collapsed, but a loud roar – his blood, it was his blood - engulfed his whole being for a long, agonizing moment, and he knew no more._

_Perhaps he cried out, and probably he tried to grab his head, to prevent the bones to shatter into a thousand of pieces, but someone grasped his wrists and pinned him down, voices, voices that murmured to him impossible to understand._

_It was like he had a body, but at the same time he didn’t. As if he was immersed up to the head into the flaming throat of a volcano, every centimeter of his flesh lashed by waves of hurt so devastating that D'Artagnan almost thought he couldn’t endure it anymore, before realizing that the harsh noise that filled the senses was his own breath._

_So he focused on it, his breathing, and slowly, very slowly, his tensed muscles started to relax. And then came the smell, and he felt surrounded the natural scents of Athos, Porthos and Aramis, his tired mind able to spot something to which he could anchor himself, to find his way back to reality, and to facilitate his path towards consciousness._

_It took another long, long minute._

_But then he sensed them._

_They were all there._

_When he finally managed to pry his eyes open, lying on the ground on a light blue cape that protected him from dust and dirt, he saw them, holding him down so tightly that he couldn't even move a single muscle._

_“Are you with us, D'Artagnan?” Aramis gasped, one hand to support the Gascon’s head, the other resting with infinite care to his cheek._

_He was almost rocking him ... so protectively that for a moment the Gascon felt overjoyed._

_“Oi, lad, can ya ‘ear us?” Porthos called him back to attention, his large, strong hands still wrapped around D’Artagnan’s legs to prevent him from making sudden – and unwise – movements._

_“D'Artagnan” Athos spoke too, as he trapped his wrists in a firm but careful grip, mindful not to cause to the lad additional pain._

_“Wha ...” the Gascon finally breathed, struggling to keep a firm grisp on his mind, devastated by that moment of terrible agony._

_Aramis' sigh of relief, as they finally received some kind of response from the boy, was so violent that for a moment the Musketeer doubled over. But Porthos’s hand, which automatically reached out to grab him, trembled visibly too, and although Athos said nothing, his eyes closed, and he shuddered of a badly repressed tremor._

_“Do you remember what happened to you?” the marksman asked a couple of seconds later, raising his head again, his eyes warm and soothed as he cleared his throat to soften his voice, making it sound as pure velvet as if he was to deal with a frightened child._

_D'Artagnan did, but utter the word "Marzan" was still an effort._

_“You're injured, D'Artagnan. I extracted the bullet, but we must find some place where you can rest, and you have a concussion, so let us do all the work, okay?” Aramis grinned, waiting for a moment to make sure that the Gascon was really there, with them._

_D'Artagnan remembered that nodding was a very bad idea just in time, so he gave a little grunt of assent, which tore another audible sigh of relief from each of the three Musketeers._

_Again, as he heard it, the boy was left speechless. Up to that point his friends were worried about him? He dreaded to let himself hope, and at the same time, he felt a vague sense of shame as he realized he was rejoicing before the concern showed by those three men._

_As for the journey to the nearest inn, however, he didn’t remember much. Athos and Porthos lifted him to his feet while he leaned heavily on them, but even if they didn’t let him move a finger, between his head and his side, he almost fainted again, and when they heaved him on Aramis’ horse, the Spaniard immediately holding him with a strong arm around his waist, he lost consciousness._

_Later he discovered that, as they reached their destination, he had developed a high fever, and that the three men had barely slept during the three days that it took for his body to fight the infection._

_What he had not expected, regaining consciousness on the fourth day, though, it was Athos’ reaction._

_D'Artagnan was still smiling to Porthos, who had greeted his awakening with a loud “here you are, welcome back pup!”, when the Lieutenant appeared by the bed to freeze him with his worst hurricane stare, so blue that it seemed almost unnatural on his suddenly pale face._

_“How did you dare to expose yourself in such a fashion! In the midst of a battle! It was an idiotic move, which almost had cost you your life!”_

_“Athos”_

_Aramis’ hand, as well as his quiet – but stern - warning, remained unheeded._

_“Cannot you even begin to reason with your brain, rather than with your heart?! Is it possible that you are not able to try and obey to a direct order!?”_

_D'Artagnan felt his blood run cold in his veins. Athos was literally seething, his arms trembled with barely controlled rage, and his face – usually so stoic and unwavering – was twisted in a fury that never before the Gascon had seen in him._

_And he couldn’t help himself. He felt his eyes moisten. His cheeks flamed with indignation and shame, and the humiliation he felt at being so harshly reprimanded by one of the three men he most respected and loved in the world, in the presence of the other two – no less – almost choked him._

_His lips tightened, and his whole body tensed as to reject Athos’ harsh words._

_Why was he blamed when he had saved his friend’s lives? Wasn’t that courage what made a man a Musketeer?_

_“Athos calm down” Porthos interjected, dark irises focused on the Lieutenant, who was obviously beside himself with fury._

_But as he parted his lips to defend his own actions, D'Artagnan – for the first time since Fate had crossed his path with this extraordinary men - understood._

_Because he could be young and impetuous, and sometimes irrational and reckless – foolish, maybe, for it was true, his heart often, too often, took the reins of his brain - but he knew a few things, D'Artagnan, about concern._

_He knew that it could grow into an irrational panic when a loved one met face to face with death._

_He knew that it could speak harshly, but that hard, gut filling rage was just a mirror, beneath which there was a beating heart._

_And sometimes it was painful, for those who found themselves on the receiving end of that concern, but show resentment was unfair, because in matters of fear, and love, rationality, and fairness, and justice had no chance to rule._

_D’Artagnan knew all of that and some more._

_So he swallowed his own harsh comeback._

_Still, he never knew what prompted him to do what he did._

_Madness, again, maybe._

_His impetuosity._

_Nevertheless, ignoring Aramis’ hiss, “what do you think you’re doing, you are absolutely in no conditions to move!”, he stood up, and silently he encircled the older Musketeer’s neck with arms, trembling with fatigue, relief, and even emotion._

_Athos, at that point, was probably too stunned to move. He simply petrified._

_But the Gascon just closed his eyes, his forehead finding a warm spot in the crook of the Musketeer's neck._

_A young orphan, alone in the world, D'Artagnan had never hoped to find so soon someone that would accept him to the point of panicking from the sheer terror of losing him._

_Someone who would call him brother, that made sure he was well fed, who worried about the state of his boots._

_Foolishly, he had initially believed that Aramis’ glances, Athos’ nods, or Porthos’ grin, were condescending. That deep down they considered him a burden, a responsability, a child they had to care for because Fate had dumped him on their heads._

_But how wrong he was._

_He had been blind, hadn’t he?_

_How could he think so poorly of them, honorable men who did everything they could to help him? Going as far as training him, a stranger, no less, who had tried to kill one of them?_

_“Dear God, is he..”_

_“Shhh!”_

_A bout of dizziness somehow spoiled a bit the effect of D'Artagnan's gesture, because as weak as he was, rather than embrace him, he ended up collapsing in Athos’ arms._

_His burst of movement had severely increased the pain he felt, a thin layer of cold sweat was now dotting the front and back of his head, and his legs trembled as Christmas pudding, but he forget it all as Athos' arms moved to hold him._

_And then suddenly, the Gascon realized that Athos showed no hurry to help him back to bed._

_On the contrary, as D'Artagnan quite fainted in his arms, Athos fell suddenly silent, stunned, his eyes so wide that he heard Aramis and Porthos trying – and clearly failing – to stifle a chuckle, and then he hugged him back, leaning his face above the Gascon’s head._

_“Idiot”, the Lieutenant muttered, his voice a mixture of resignation, exasperation and undisguised affection._

_“Yeah, but he’s our idiot” Porthos grinned softly, placing a large – and oh so warm - hand, between the boy’s shoulder blades to stroke him gently, if to console the young man or to reassure himself that he was there, safe, and alive with them, it was hard to tell._

_“Ain’t we cuddly?” Aramis chuckled, sneaking in enough to rest his own head on the Lieutenant’s free shoulder._

_“Shut up. All of you” Athos unflinchingly muttered, wondering why – in God’s name – he kept to surround himself with children._

_But they still spent several minutes huddled together before a much more relaxed, and happy D'Artagnan was put to bed._

-*-*-

 

  

“It's healing well enough” Aramis decreed, snatching D’Artagnan back from his dive into the past. “And no fever” he added, resting a hand on the lad’s forehead with the same familiarity - D'Artagnan realized with a burst of warmth - he reserved to Athos or Porthos. “Come on, back to sleep for you”.

“We could tell ‘im a bedtime story”

“Shut up Porthos” D'Artagnan rebutted, but with no real heat in his words.

“Or?” the bigger man challenged, his grin a flash of white on his smooth, ebony face.

“Or we’ll put to _you_ to sleep” Aramis threatened mischievously, even if his hands were busy to wrap the youngest of them in a cocoon of blankets so tight that probably the boy wouldn’t be able to get out of it so easily.

“Do you want to tell us a story, mother?” Porthos teased, lifting an eyebrow

“For God's sake, shut up, you two” Athos sighed, lowering his hat on his forehead as if banishing them from his sight could also silence them for the night. _A man could hope.._

“You're just jealous of my good look” was the reply of the marksman, that was squirming a little in his effort to find a comfortable position on the hard ground with only a thoo thin mattress.

“Yea’, it must be that” Porthos laughed, an uproaring sound that bothered a couple of birds formerly nestled in the tree above them, trying to hit his brother with a scarf that was captured midair by a feline hand.

“You sound like an old married couple” the Gascon muttered, barely an amused – and very sleepy - whisper since he had already set one foot in the Morpheus’ realm.

“See? Ya’r keeping the puppy awake, ‘Mis”

“Maybe you should sing him a lullaby, Porthos”

“Who decided that I should be the wife?” the Musketeer objected, arching an eyebrow

“Who said that only women can sing?” Aramis threw back, stealing, with a stealth that only cats and Aramis had in common, his bottle of wine to an increasingly disgruntled Athos. 

“Right” Porthos agreed wisely, holding back a laugh at Athos’ expression. Unhappy, to put it mildly. 

D'Artagnan, by now almost dead to the world, grinned softly, turning - with difficulty, given the strong grip of the blankets on his body - on his uninjured side.

He didn’t have many things to his name in the world, save for the clothes he wore, his weapons, and his horse.

And his pauldron, of course.

But coming to Paris he had gained three brothers, and there was never anything that he had been happier to own.


	14. Pissed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s been hours since they left the Palace, but try as he might, he couldn’t free his mouth to ask for his brothers’ help. He had tried, for the love of God, he had tried. As hard as his considerable force of will allowed him to. Without success. So far, his lips were tightly shut".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody, how are you? As I promised, here I am, ready to share another chapter of this collection, P for Pissed. As I did with Immovable, I feel the need to warn you: this one is a bit intense. Very emotional. So, well, find a comfortable position and be ready for a rough ride :D  
> But, first and foremost - as always - let me thank you all for your wonderful and invaluable support, for taking the time to leave a comment or kudos, to add your bookmark to this collection and to just read it. Every time someone leave me a comment I can’t helpt it, I start to write, so it’s because of you that I’m here, ready to share another chapter. I love you all!
> 
> Since I've finally learned how to reply to your comments right away (yeah, it took long enough me to realize that), and since I’m really eager to know if you’ll like this one, I won't hold you back any longer and I’ll let you go back to Paris! I really hope you’ll have fun!

 

 

 

 _“I want to weep, he thought._  
_I want to be comforted._  
_I'm so tired of being strong._  
_I want to be foolish and frightened for once._  
_Just for a small while, that's all....a day.....an hour.”_  
(G.R.R. Martin) 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

If someone would ask him to list the names of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, D’Artagnan would certainly mention Anais Bertram. Since her childhood, the daughter of one of the wealthiest breeders of Lupiac, in Gascony, was considered one of the beauties of the small town of Castlemore. Tall, with olive skin and big hazelnuts eyes, his father had broken several hearts at the village before giving his daughter's hand to a worthy suitor. Monsieur Bertram, indeed, the eldest son of a gentleman who owned a lovely estate and a good portion of land.

Of course, Anais’ sons were, in turn, beautiful. Sofie had long dark curls, glittering like the feathers of a crow, and Antoine, three years younger than his sister, was equipped with an amiable character, lively, exuberant, but also friendly and kind. The Bertram, in Lupiac, were well-known, and not only because they resembled a painting when they strolled across the bustling streets of the small, farmers’ town. But for the reason that they were blessed with the most admirable of qualities, they were unpretentious, always affable toward their neighbors, generous to those who had to face difficult times, and kind well beyond what good manners required.

D'Artagnan had always considered Céleste, his mother, far more beautiful than Madame Anais, with her elegant neck, her long dark lashes, and her ever-smiling face, although now, after so many years, he could barely recall her at all. And yet he was fond of the lovely mother of Antoine, his friend and equal in age. She was generous in offering the children warm apple cakes, she was loving, like a mother should be, and sweet like the Spring’s wind after a long unmerciful Winter.

 

One day, however, an accident happened to that dear family.

It was a warm Sunday morning, and the good people of Castlemore, in Lupiac, were leaving the church after the mass when a blood curling scream froze every single man and woman in their step. A horse had trampled poor little Antoine, barely 5 years old at the time, killing him instantly.

The whole community was shocked beyond words.

Young D’Artagnan still remembered how his parents grieved the death of their friends’ son, playmate of both their children, and how they had participated, together with the whole town, to the funeral, celebrated in the small graveyard nestled just behind the old Saint Mary’s church, a tall pale building adorned with ivy leaves.

D'Artagnan, holding hands with André, had attended the ceremony with his parents, and he had cried too. Antoine was a friend for him and his brother and the thought of never had the chance to play with him again was something that made his little heartache.

Thus, in front of his own tears, he was shocked to see how Madame Anais’ face, _beautiful, gentle Madame Anais,_ was dry. There, standing next to the light wooden coffin that hid, from the eyes of the mourning crowd, the little boy's body, she looked like a statue. Graceful and ethereal, but cold and impassive nonetheless. She looked like an angel, fell to Earth to assist unwaveringly to the human afflictions.

 

That image had shaken him. Why wasn’t a mother mourning the death of her child? Why didn’t she shed a tear for him?

So, back at the farm, D’Artagnan had voiced his doubts to his mother. Céleste had smiled sadly at his son’s distress, and she had taken him on her knees to explain to him that pain, sometimes, paralyzes. And that it can be so strong, and so sudden, to immobilize a human body, depriving it of every single emotion.

 

Being a little child, D’Artagnan didn’t really understood what she meant at the time.

Growing up, however, those words had sadly acquired a clear meaning to him.

 

During the years, as he became a man, had seen his father’s blood – his brave, honorable father - run cold, his body grow tense, his whole figure freeze crushed by grief, and guilt, and anger, and desperation.

Then he had seen men in tears, unable to even breathe, and finally he had to experience that kind of fear, pain, and relief himself. He had discovered that horror could petrify, but that relief could also do that to a man.

 

But most importantly, he had to learn the hard way that sometimes, when combined together, relief, pain and fear could be stronger than a thousand chains. They could be all-encompassing, and no will, as mighty as it was, could break them. No matter how strong a man is, when they assaulted a soul at the same time, when they joined forces, he had no hopes to defeat them.

There was no key to unlock those chains.  
Nor a dagger able to sever those ties.  
Only an indomitable, unyielding persistence could do that. A fire that burnt deeper than blood, unquenchable even when those emotions were tearing said man apart.

But to learn how to resist to those emotions it took time. And, most importantly, a hand willing to help.

 

D’Artagnan, as said, knew all of this. He had to brave those chains more than once. Alone, mostly. But this time, pain, relief and fear mixed with the weariness that, after the ordeal he had to face, had set upon his body, and he had no strength left to fight against his own emotions. Therefore, as he sat on that worn out stool, barely aware of his brothers surrounding him, he discovered that his body wasn’t only chained up. But gagged too. 

And that. _That_. It was almost too much. Unable to move, to scream, and to speak, it was overwhelming. He felt helpless, and he didn’t know how to unlock that all-encompassing, invisible pressure that kept him bound.

It’s been hours since they left the Palace, but try as he might, he couldn’t free his mouth to ask for his brothers’ help. He had tried, for the love of God, he had _tried_. As hard as his considerable force of will allowed him to. Without success. So far, his lips were tightly shut. 

He couldn’t utter a single word. For the life of him, D’Artagnan simply couldn’t.

Every time he pressed himself to take a deep breath to force his voice out, his throat would close, and his words would get stuck somewhere between his chest and his sealed mouth.  
It was as if his body had ceased hours ago to obey the orders from his brain.  
His teeth were gritted together so hard that his jaw trembled, and his shoulders were so tight that someone could have hit him, and probably the man’s hand would shatter in pieces.  
But if that wasn’t enough, what truly bothered him above everything else, were his eyes.  
He couldn’t stop blinking, not for a second, otherwise, by now, he would be in _tears.  
_ And he was a bloody Musketeers, for God’s sake, not an innocent maiden who had yet to face pain for the first time in her life! Why couldn’t he keep himself from crying? Why couldn’t he speak? Why had he to feel so disappointed? So hurt? So thoroughly, ruthlessly _pissed?_

He could understand Madame Anais, now.  
But that knowledge didn’t help him at all.  
For he didn’t know how he could overcome that turmoil that was consuming his own very being.

It was too much. Everything he felt, he thought, he smelled, even, it was just too much. The storm raging in his chest was growing with every passing second, he could feel it, he knew he was going to burst, and that scared him, for he had never felt so adrift before, unable to even unclench his fists to grab onto something, _anything_ , strong enough to help him to resurface from the depth of that roaring inferno. 

Even to control his own breathing was an almost unbearable effort, his blood was pounding in his veins with such a force that D'Artagnan feared that if he ever relaxed a single muscle, it would flow out of his body, probably in the form of bitter tears.

He tried to reason with himself, he tried to soothe his battered soul, and to listen to that inner voice - that sounded alarmingly like Athos - that told him that the matter was out of his hands. That he couldn’t do a single thing to solve the situation.That the pauldron he so proudly wore was, above everything else, the symbol of his status, and therefore he was powerless when it came to question the King’s decisions. He was a soldier, and soldiers just obey, without question, without uttering a _single_ word, to their orders.

But then why, why if he knew that by heart, he was unable to even _part_ his lips?  
Was the soldier in him that kept him from speaking? From screaming? From _crying?_

But most importantly, did he really have any right to cry?

 

He sighed.  
He didn’t know.  
But, God helps him, he was _pissed_. And _hurt_.

 

“D’Artagnan, you must eat something” Aramis told him softly, leaning over the table to push the plate a little closer to his younger brother, hunched in his chair in front of him with his hair shielding his dark eyes.

 

The lad lifted his chin abruptly as his brother’s gentle words brought him back to reality, and he unconsciously tried to part his lips to answer him, to tell him that he wasn’t hungry at all, that he was just… hurt, and seething, and haunted by Pepin’s wide, terrified eyes as the shot pierced through his chest, cruelly snatching him from his wife, and his daughter.

But again, he couldn’t.  
For the life of him, D’Artagnan couldn’t do a darn, bloody _thing_.

So he just shook his head, vaguely noticing for the first time since they took place around that worn, wooden table, how tightly his fingers were holding his goblet of wine, his knuckles so white that it was a wonder the thing didn’t yield under that pressure.  
But loosening that hold was still – apparently – beyond his capabilities, too.  
No matter how hard he fought against those emotions. Against his heart.  
He couldn’t move, as he couldn’t speak. All he could do was to clench _every single muscle_ in his body to keep.himself.from.crying.

 

“C’mon, little brother, you’ll need your strength to get better” Porthos tried too, resting one of his big hands on the boy’s arm, his midnight orbs both affectionate, worried, and angered too.

 

As they left Pepin’s home, D’Artagnan didn’t let Aramis get near him enough for the medic to examine his wounds – _yet_ – but countless bruises and cuts could be seen peeking under his chemise, around his wrists, and on his left temple, barely covered by a dark lock of hair. And if there was something that pissed Porthos above everything else, it was when someone had the _nerve_ to hurt his brothers. 

But D’Artangnan was too absorbed by that bloody storm ravaging his chest to notice what darkened his brother’s gaze. This time he didn’t even try to form a proper reply, he simply raised his eyes, enough to give Porthos a long and weary glare, and then, frustrated beyond belief, and hurt, and so pissed he could barely stifle a _growl_ , he simply let his eyelids close, hoping beyond hope to discover that it was all a nightmare and that he would awake in his bed at the garrison, Aramis’ velvety voice calling for him, _“breakfast is ready, little one, get dressed, Porthos is already complaining that he’s hungry, and you know how he gets when we make in wait”._

Therefore, he missed the look his brothers exchanged above his head.  
He couldn’t care for the food or the wine.  
For as the darkness surrounded him, he found no rest, only nightmares. The same scenes replayed in his brain again and again in a slow, but painful, torture.

  

-*-*-

 

 

_The woods, those musket shots raining on them like a storm, the horses’ hooves thundering so hard they could feel the Earth shake under their feet, and the cries of those who died, killed like animals by ruthless criminals.  
_ _They ran, as fast as they could, they had to get to the trees down there. Barely a few feet away._

_“Come on, let’s go!”_

_His body hurt like hell for the beating he had suffered to protect his sovereign, and the adrenaline was the only thing that allowed him to run, his feet barely brushing the ground as he kept his grip firmly anchored to his Majesty’s leather vest to steer him in the right direction. Sweat irritated his wild but focused eyes, and his heart was beating so loudly he could barely hear anything else, but nothing mattered, if not the burning need to fulfill his duty, and save the monarch. He could see the trees getting closer and closer, they were almost there now, another couple of strides and they would be safe._

_And then someone shot._

_Loud, as a thunder._

_D’Artagnan didn’t know how he could hear it in the midst of that inferno.  
_ _But it was heart shattering, like an ominous quake._

_He turned, his breath so harsh he was nauseous, the world was spinning, and it smelled of smoke, and death._

_He felt the King cling to his arm like he was a beacon, the only source of light in the darkest of nights. But for a moment, nothing mattered anymore. Not the screams of agony worth of a circle of Hell that were coming from everywhere, nor the rush of adrenaline in his veins, or the blood, that slowly, and inexorably, stained, like a river, the earth._

_For his frantic eyes saw him there. The man he had tried so hard to save, falling hard on his knees, like a lamb ready to be slaughtered._

_The world came to an abrupt stop, then, and as he turned, D’Artagnan froze, unable to accept the gaping hole on Pepin’s chest. No, the trees were so close… it couldn’t be, it couldn’t end like that._

 

_“Pepin! Get up, come on!”_

_His shout sounded foreign to his own ears. He could only feel the blood pumping loudly in his veins, and the harsh sound of his breathing. Nothing, nothing made sense anymore. He had to get up, he had to shout louder, to make him stand up and run!_

_“Pepin! Come on, get up!”_

_But then his eyes met those of Pepin, that young, honorable man, kidnapped from his family because Spain needed more slaves. He saw their light fading quickly, as it was fading his life. And D’Artagnan couldn’t feel anything anymore, deafened by his own desperate shout._

 

_“Come on, Pepin! You have to get up!”_

_But Pepin couldn’t._  
_D’Artagnan saw the blood dripping down the man’s chin. He saw him try and utter incomprehensible words.  
_ _And then there was another shot. Another hole in that innocent’s chest._

_He vaguely registered the King’s arms restraining him now, keeping him from going back and kill that bastard, trying to steer him away from the umpteenth victim of that madness.  
_ _His breath caught in his throat. Pepin dropped to the ground. And passed away._

_“NO!”_

_And then, all the Gascon could do was run, propelled by his loyalty, his honor, his duty. Protect the King. He had to protect the King.  
_ _But as they left the bloodied clearing behind, the youngest of the Musketeers could still hear ringing in his mind, over and over again, his own desperate cry of sorrow._

 

-*-*-

 

 

D’Artagnan shuddered as he straightened himself to wipe his face with his trembling hands, in hope to wipe away those memories too.  
But they were branded in his mind with fire, and as he covered his eyes with his fingertips, he realized that darkness could only bring them back more vividly.

 

-*-*-

 

_“D’Artagnan, your bravery and loyalty during our ordeal deserve recognition. I have a special gift for you. You have the honor of executing this traitor”._

 

-*-*-

Another flinch, another harrowing stab of pain. How could his King ask him that? To kill in cold blood? To play the hangman’s part?

 

-*-*-

 

_“Are you taking sides with a traitor against your King?”_

-*-*-

 

D’Artagnan gasped quietly and he almost felt the bile rising in his throat as he remembered how, just a couple of hours ago, he had to face his King to remind him that he’s a soldier, and not and executioner.

But a weight had settled on him since then, and he couldn’t breathe properly anymore. The trail left by Lemaitre’s blood on the precious Palace’s floors still burned his eyes.

 

 

-*-*-

 

_“First, you’d take me to that tavern, put my life in danger. And now this. Why do you Musketeers insist on disappoint me?”._

-*-*-

 

He had to clench his fists so hard he felt his nails pierce his skin to keep from shouting all the rage he felt as he remembered that offense. That insult. Disappont _him_? Was the King _disappointed?_ Because of _them?!_ His Musketeers?!

“D’Artagnan”.

 

He flinched abruptly out of those harsh memories as Athos’ hand landed on his injured shoulder, causing him to hiss loudly.  
 _Darn… so much for keeping Aramis’ fuss at a minimum,_ he though wearily, looking almost resigned as another familiar hand traded place with Athos’ one. He didn’t move when his leather and shirt were shifted aside to reveal the huge dark violet spot that was the higher part of his arm, he couldn’t, but he felt like screaming as he realized that he didn’t want to be touched, and then that he should be ashamed for that very thought. He _was_ ashamed. What was happening to him? How could he dare to even think to refuse his brothers’ attentions? Was he that ungrateful before the men that did everything they could to secure him a commission, and in the process, a family? 

No, D’Artagnan sighed, barely noticing Aramis’ hands anymore. He hadn’t said a word about the injuries he had sustained for protecting the King, but he had never thought to willingly keep his brothers in the dark, simply, as the adrenaline left him, they had reached the Palace, and D’Artagnan’s emotions went downhill from then. 

As he realized that, D’Artagnan tried to explain it to Athos, Porthos and Aramis. But _damn_ if his body would allow him to do that. Damn if he could even lift a _finger_ to reach for their hands, to beg them to help him. His eyes filled again with tears at that, and for D’Artagnan, it was almost the breaking point. He was already dealing with a burning chain made of pain, fear, relief, and rage… how could he handle his guilt too? His hand, the one that wasn’t holding his wine, clenched furiously, but when his nails cut the flesh… it scared him. Because for a brief, and glorious moment, he felt pain, and then a _relief_ stronger than anything else.

 

“Calm down, little brother, you’re safe now”.

 

Hadn’t been at war with himself, D'Artagnan probably might have realized that his brothers would never have reprimanded him for hiding his wounds. Not at a time like that. Not after all he had suffered. Had he turned his head to look at Aramis, for example, the boy would have seen him wince, and hiss in sympathy as he finally had the chance to examine his brother, albeit partly since he couldn’t properly undress the lad in a tavern. But the marksman didn’t even think to scold the lad for his silence. He didn’t have the heart for it. One look to D’Artagnan, and for the millionth time, instead, the sharpshooter and part-time medic sighed. Dark glistening eyes, barely controlled tears, gaunt face and shaking hands, their young one was utterly _devastated_. And as he nodded once to Athos and Porthos to let them know that the wounds weren’t so severe to be life-threatening, he felt his lips thin when he thought about the treatment his brother had to suffer.

Being kidnapped, alone with the King to protect, and forced to march for miles with the sole perspective of being sold to a Spanish galley. Beaten, _more than once, at least,_ but with still enough compassion to carry another man’s weight to save an innocent life. And then... then his little brother was humiliated by the same King he had risked his own life for, who thought it would be an honor, for a _Musketeer_ , to play the role of the executioner….

Aramis sighed, clenching his jaw. It was unfair. By God, it was just _unfair_.  
And how high it was the price they all had to pay that day. Their little brother’s shining soul, stained by inequity and blood.

He had see that pure light darken before his own very eyes, Aramis, as they stood in front of the _disappointed_ King. As if that single moment stole from D’Artagnan a little bit of his precious – oh so precious – goodness.

The marksman had silently mourned the lost spark of the boy’s spirit, for he had sworn, together with Athos and Porthos, to protect his innocence with all they had. As long as they could. Obviously, they had failed this time, and Aramis would feel guilty for a long time before being able to accept that, wether they liked it or not, blood would, sooner rather than later, taint their little brother’s heart too. And that all they could do was be there to help those wounds to scar without infection. To help him raise again, even when the world would fight hard to defeat him.

 

“Are you in pain, D’Artagnan?” Athos inquired quietly, tilting softly his head to run his own examination of the lad’s conditions, for his thoughts weren’t far from those twirling painfully in Aramis’ head.

 

It was the dullness of the boy’s eyes that most worried him, for D’Artagnan always had that spark in those warm, deep irises, and it was unsettling to see him so lost. So silent.  
D’Artagnan again lifted his head. But again, his lips stayed sealed. So he sighed, and he clenched his jaw in obvious frustration at his inability to properly reply to his brothers. How stupid of him, to be unable to even move his mouth to form a retort, he thought as he shook his head stiffly, his fingers tightening again their grip on his wine.

He had to drink it, yet. His mouth wasn’t allowing him that, too.  
His teeth were gritted together so fiercely he felt he couldn’t separate them even if he wanted to.  
But in hindsight, maybe it was for the best.

Because the mere thought of moving an inch made him tremble in a barely contained rage, and his whole body tensed, his muscles clamped shut, and he felt more like a statue, than a man.

 _I’m weak._  
_Why can’t I simply get a grip on my emotions?  
_ _Why everything I feel must fill my eyes with tears?_

He didn’t have any answer, D’Artagnan, and that was adding to the list of things that pissed him beyond words.

 

“Right… I think we all had enough, don’t we brothers?” Aramis spoke lightly, unnoticeably tilting his had to give Athos to Porthos a look full of meaning. “Why don’t we move to somewhere quieter?”.

 

To be fair, that night their usual tavern – The Wren – wasn’t particularly loud. Just a few men here and there drinking and gambling, the waitresses swaying among the tables to provide food and wine, and a heavy cloud of sweat, stew and alcohol smothering the smoky air, wrapping everything in a thick, opaque cloud that dulled the patrons’ senses, engulfing colors and sounds.

But to try and make their lad talk, the Musketeers needed a place more private. Like Athos’ apartments, for example, since the man had his quarters just a couple of minutes away from the tavern, in Rue d’Argot.

“Yea’, Athos’ wine is better, anyway” Porthos grinned forcedly, raising from his chair with a pointed look to their Gascon.

Athos rolled his eyes at his brother’s words, but didn’t say anything, he knew it was just a feeble excuse to convince the lad to follow them.

“Come on D’Artagnan, you will feel better after a breath of fresh air” Aramis grinned kindly, moving his hand to cradle the boy’s neck.

 

But apparently, that was all it took to trigger – finally – D’Artagnan.  
Although his reaction wasn’t what they had expected.

 

Because, as soon as the marksman’s fingers stroke lightly the boy’s skin, D’Artagnan stood abruptly, and with a visible filnch he harshly pulled away, stumbling in his haste to avoid his brother’s touch. Wildly, his eyes darted from one Musketeer to the other, as if searching for something, but wathever that was, he couldn’t find it. And he was visibly trembling when, finally, he strode past them, raising a hand to deter Porthos from trying and stop him, as he left purposefully the tavern.

 

“What…” the bigger Musketeer murmured, his dark, expressive eyes widening in bewilderment  
“Let’s go” Athos merely sighed, already moving to dodge a couple of cheering patrons to follow their little brother’s steps.  
Aramis was right behind him, his jaw tight in concern. The lad didn’t even look coherent enough to recognize them, he tried not to think what could befall him without their protection, in that state.  
Obviously, the hurt he detected in him ran deeper than he thought.

 

Fortunately, they spotted him right away, for apparently the fresh air did nothing to help D’Artagnan to feel better. On the contrary, he was swaying more visibly now, and he had to shot his arm out to grab hold of the wall to his left to keep from crumbling to the ground.

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos shouted, as they ran at his side to hold him up. His strong arm immediately circled the boy’s waist to prop him against his broad chest, Aramis’ already busy with D’Artagnan’s forehead, wondering if he was running a fever.

 

“Stop. _Stop!_ ”

 

It was barely a harsh whisper, but it froze them all immediately.  
Apparently, D’Artagnan had found his ability to use his voice, finally.  
But that wasn’t really of any help.

He looked… wild. Lost. On the verge of panic.

 

“Let me go”, he gasped, fighting to free himself from Porthos’ hold. “Let me go!”

“D’Artagnan, calm down” Athos commanded, both sternly and gently, for he didn’t want to antagonize the obviously agitated pup.

_“Let me go!”_

“D’Artagnan…”

A pointy elbow hit Porthos squarely in his ribs, but it was more the surprise than the pain that made him lose his hold on the boy. There wasn’t really any strength behind that blow, D’Artagnan was injured, he had barely enough energy to keep standing, and Porthos cursed softly as the boy squirmed free, shoving neatly Aramis’ aside to try and escape from them.

Unfortunately for the lad, Porthos wasn’t only as strong as a brick wall. He was also quite fast. As Aramis stumbled to regain his balance, wide-eyed as he registered the tears that were freely flowing down D’Artagnan’s face, the bigger man had already crossed the distance between the boy and his brothers, his strong hand quickly catching the lad’s by his arm.

“Wait” Porthos called, using his grip to make the boy turn.

“LET ME GO!” D’Artagnan shouted, trying to break Porthos’ hold on him with his free hand. “LET ME GO!”.

 

He was sobbing in earnest now, and the bigger man felt a tug at his heart as he realized how distraught their youngest was. He didn’t let go, but his voice softened considerably as he noticed those puffy red eyes, his paleness, his desperation. He looked like a wounded animal, and in a hopeless need of help.

“Hush now, little one. We’re here now” he murmured soothingly, catching D’Artagnan’s free hand to keep him from further injuring himself.

“Careful, Porthos” Aramis quietly admonished, moving to stand at his brothers’ side with slow, measured steps, to prevent from startling all the more their frantic lad.

“Aramis” Athos called just as quietly, motioning with a slight nod to D’Artagnan’s side, where it was visible, peeking under his tousled shirt, another big dark bruise.

The marksman nodded, narrowing his eyes as he added that wound to the already long list of injuries suffered by their younger borther.

“D’Artagnan, don’t fight, breathe. You’re safe now” Athos drawled softly, grabbing the boy’s left arm to allow Porthos to release the struggling pup’s torn wrists, and restrain him with more caution.

 

Not an easy task, since the boy wasn’t cooperating..

“Little brother, you need to stop fighting, can you hear me?” Aramis repeated slowly but forcefully, moving to position himself between his brothers, to hold carefully D’Artagnan’s face with his hands. “Listen to me, you must calm down” he said, wiping away the lad’s tears with his thumbs. 

“I…I can’t” the Gascon gasped, trying, and failing, to stop those darn tears, his body so engulfed by sorrow and rage that he couldn’t even… breath properly, or stifle the violent shivers that shook him from head to toe. He was so… pissed, and… _hurt_ after that hellish ordeal that it was impossible, for him, to think clearly, to reign in his emotions. He just needed to sob, and maybe… scream, and..

He didn’t really know what he needed.

But they _had.to.let.him.go.now._

 

They were so… darn strong that try as he might, he couldn’t free himself. He didn’t know how, but as he fought with all he had, he found himself pinned to the wall he was using – a moment ago – to brace himself, and their hands felt like rocks, restraining him so securely that he had to grit his teeth to stop the frustrated scream he felt climbing up through his burning throat.

“Please” he found himself begging, his vision blurred by hot, relentless tears. _“Please”._

“Hush little brother, hush” Aramis’ soft voice replied, somewhere before him, rough, gentle hands cradling his face with so much tenderness that, for the briefest of moments, the lad went limp in their hold. “Calm down, breath. We won’t leave you”.

D’Artagnan gasped, his breath choked by the maelstrom that was tearing at his heart. And then something in him shattered, and a wave of exhaustion knocked on him so violently that his knees buckled, threatening to let him fall down.

Aramis’ hands were at his waist before he could blink, the man’s chest pressed tightly against his own, assuming the role of the wall that had formerly been his sole support against the pull of gravity.

And when his face nestled automatically in the crook of his brother’s neck, that familiar flowery scent engulfing his senses, he relaxed, for the first time in many days, accepting – finally, _finally_ – to lean on those loyal, and safe – _oh, so very safe_ – shoulders. He couldn’t fight against himself on his own, he realized. He needed them. His brothers. He couldn’t do it without them.

“I’m sorry” he murmured, uncaring if his tears were dampening Aramis’ collar. He knew his brother wouldn’t mind it too. He knew it, and somehow that simple knowledge reassured him more than anything else.

“You have nothing to apologize for, D’Artagnan” Athos quietly reassured, loosening a bit his grip on the boy’s arm without letting go.

“Oh whelp” Porthos sighed fondly, moving his free hand to ruffle his little brother’s hair. It pained him to no end to see the usually fierce pup doubled over as he was, but unable to ask for their help. He could understand, the boy was barely out of his puppyhood, obviously he still had to properly learn how to face matters of emotions, but that’s what older brothers were for, right? “We’ll take care of you, don’t cry, mh?”

“Sorry” D’Artagnan helplessly repeated, unconsciously pressing himself even closer to Aramis, who, by now, was fairly hugging him.

“Shh… we got you, D’Artagnan. Let us help you, _si vous plait?_ ” Aramis gently murmured, pressing his lips to boy’s temple.

 

The boy whimpered softly, and Aramis chuckled lightly as he motioned to Porthos and Athos to help him to hold D’Artagnan up. They moved in sync, since that was a dance they all knew perfectly, and keeping the lad steady with his arms around their shoulders they disappeared slowly into the night, far away from the stuffy tavern and toward a more quiet part of the city.

The streets were barely illuminated, but they had no trouble to reach Athos’ apartment, nestled in a narrow road shaped by small – but tidy - gray houses, so close to each other that a man could barely walk among the dark alleys that ran aronud the buildings. His rooms were on the first and last floor, connected to the wooden entrance by a flight of sturdy stairs, barely creaking under their combined weight. A good thing, really, since Athos’ landlady was a kind, but susceptible, old woman.

 

“Here, let’s settle you on the bed” Aramis said, opening the door for his brothers and then moving aside to let them pass, his mind already cataloging what he would need to take care of D’Artagnan injuries.

“I’m fine” was the unsurprising – but still moronic – reply from the boy, promptly ignored by Athos and Porthos, as they steered the lad to the older Musketeer’s bed.

“Of course you are, lad. But you will allow me to take a look, won’t you?” Aramis grinned, moving to kneel at his brother’s feet.

He wasn’t fine by any means, since he was pale and clammy, his bloodshot eyes puffy and glossy, and even before undressing him, Aramis had counted at least five wounds. Nothing life-threatening, thank God, but still even a scratch could be dangerous if it wasn’t properly treated.

Automatically, Porthos nodded and moved to fetch clean water, while Athos rummaged through his chest to retrieve bandages, and D’Artagnan sighed as he realized that he couldn’t really do anything more than sit patiently and wait for the fuss to be over. It wasn’t that he despised the attentions, quite the contrary. But his inner turmoil had worn him out, and all he needed, now that he had again a shred of control over his body, was to drink and sleep, in that order.

Of course, he knew his brothers had the best intentions, and that’s why he submitted – if not willingly – quite resignedly. He loved them, with all his heart. And he needed them now, more than anything. If to be with them meant to let Aramis clean his wounds then that’s what he was going to do.

He needed those hands prodding his chest, even if that _hurt_ , dammit. He needed those stares, those scents, their warmth. For he didn’t know what he would do if left alone. He knew – maybe not at the moment, but he knew – that he wasn’t weak. He was anything but that. He had proved his courage, his will to fight until the end, to die in his brothers’ place, to defend with his life his King. He had endured grief, heartbreak, disillusion. He had fought against rage, uncertainty, frustration. He had lost so much, even if he had gained quite a few crucial things. His pauldron, his brothers in arms, his brothers by choice. But still… for a minute, back at the Wren, he had felt the need to… dig his nails into his arms, to fight with pain the raging sorrow that foamed just under his skin.

 

And that had scared him.

 

He didn’t consciously thought to hurt himself. But that morbid idea – almost a physical need for a moment there - had crossed his minds. And… that’s was what had caused him to lose his control. That was what made him so very grateful for those unyielding hands that held him until he was able to regain his senses. And suddenly he realized that what he had thought to do ashamed him, so much that words escaped from his mouth before he could stop them.

 

“I’m sorry” he murmured, for the third time that night. And he sighed, frustrated at being unable to make sense to his brothers, but a the same time, powerless to explain what he felt. That deep, simmering pain fed by hurt, humiliation, grief and disappointment that threatened to choke him as it happened back at the tavern, so scary, in its might, that all of his muscles were as stiff as stones to try and restrain himself.

“Please, stop apologizing, brother” Aramis sighed, halting his hands that were deftly examining D’Artagnan’s wrists, his voice hoarse with compassion and sorrow. “Talk to us, tell us what do you feel”

Athos positioned himself at the boy’s right, his hand finding its place at the nape of his neck. At D’Artagnan’s other side took place Porthos, whose deep, and gentle eyes were clouded with concern.

“I’m scared” the boy murmured, his cheeks flushing slightly as he had to admit defeat. As he realized that he needed – so much it _hurt_ – to swallow his pride just this once.

“Of what” Aramis prodded quietly, his nimble hands resuming their task but his eyes firmly on the Gascon’s pale face.

“I… I am ashamed of myself” he whispered, a lone tear finding its way along his gaunt cheek. Athos brushed it away carefully, without a word.

“Why” Porthos asked, resting his hand on the younger’s thigh, to lend him strength.

D’Artagnan shuddered, but didn’t draw back. He hunched forward slightly, as if to escape their eyes. To hide, as if it was possible.

“I… for a moment I… was so…” and he made a gesture with his hands, incapable of putting his fiery emotions into words. “… that I felt… the need to… hurt. _Myself_ ”.

 

Porthos’ eyes widened in shock, and Athos stiffened, but it was Aramis the first to react.

“Oh, D’Artagnan” he murmured, dropping the wet rag he was using to clean the boy up to gather him in his arms. “Come here” he soothed, as he felt the lad’s tears dampen his shirt again. His own heart was beating wildly at their little one’s words, and he held the crying boy all the more tightly, scared at what could have happened to him had they not been with him that night. Of course, since their little brother had been kidnapped, nothing could have kept them away, but still… Aramis shuddered, and he wasn’t surprised when he felt Athos and Porthos join the embrace, unsteady arms encircling them tightly from both sides.

 

“Dear God”, the Lieutenant breathed, closing his eyes under the weight of the lad’s pain.

Porthos couldn’t speak for the life of him, the lump in his throat as big as a fist, so he resolved to massage D’Artagnan’s back soothingly, both to console him, and to feel him alive among them.

 

“I’m sorry!”.

 

Three as one, the Musketeers sighed, for it was excruciating the lad’s need to apologize for whatever reason. How could he beg pardon when he handled himself so bravely? When was he the one that had to face the consequences of that foolish night? A Musketeers, yes, but still a young one, lacking the necessary experience to handle what a trial like the one he had to deal with left behind without shatter to pieces?

“You are brave, D’Artagnan. But even the bravest of men sometimes require a shoulder to lean on” Athos explained quietly, offering the lad his handkerchief as soon as he leaned back from Aramis’ chest.

“That’s why Musketeers are a brotherhood, lad” Porthos nodded sagely, grinning softly as D’Artagnan’s watery eyes moved on him.

“You did the right thing talking to us” Aramis nodded, tightening his grip on D’Artagnan’s shoulder to emphasize his words. “That’s what brothers are for”

“There is no shame in tears”Athos said, outguessing the lad’s thoughts. “Nor in pain”

“Everytime I close my eyes… I see him. Pepin. Dying before he could… I tried to save him but the King was with me, I couldn’t risk his life, so I had to watch him die before my very eyes… he was a good man, a good man…” D’Artagnan murmured anguished. “And then… I know that I had no troubles to kill that bastard, Gus, but I couldn’t be an executioner… I couldn’t…”

“We know, pup” Porthos promised, sharing a fierce glance with Aramis and Athos, still enraged before the King’s… _reward._

“As you eloquently said, my brother, you are a Musketeer” the marksman quoted, quite proudly judging by the firm line of his chin

“You held yourself with honor, D’Artagnan. You have no reasons to doubt yourself”

“I’m angry” the boy admitted, feeling guilty over the fierce fury that had possessed him barely minutes ago.

“Of course you are” Aramis nodded sympathetically. “I’m afraid that our King isn’t perfect. He is a man, and like us he has strengths and weaknesses. You need to accept that, brother. Do you think you will be able to do that?” 

D’Artagnan sighed, but nodded all the same. He had already reached the same conclusion, and he knew it was somewhat unfair to place King Louis on a high pedestal, since he was a sovereing, of course, but he lived in the secluded safety of the Louvre, where no pain, hunger or fear for the future could reach him. D’Artagnan didn’t really expected from him extraordinary actions, he wasn’t that naive. Or that unjust. But he had the chance to catch a glimpse of the man’s soul, far brighter than anyone could expect. Back then, when they still were captives, and that worm of a man had tried to threaten His Majesty.

That light had burned with so much force that D’Artagnan for a moment was blinded. And proud to be a Musketeer of that King all the more.

  

-*-*-

_“Who are you, tell me! Or he dies”._

_“I am Louis, son of Herny the Fourth, of the House of Bourbon, and Maria De Medici. I am your King, you cannot treat me like this”._

-*-*-

Yes, he wouldn’t ever resign his commission. For France. For his King. For his brothers.

So he nodded, and he lifted his chin to meet Aramis’, Porthos’ and Athos’ eyes. And it was a relief to feel some of that turmoil leave him finally. He could at least unclench his tired and aching muscles, and that had to mean something.

“Good” Aramis grinned as he raised his arm, his hand palm-down, meeting his brothers’ eyes with a knowing, and fraternal, gaze. 

Startled by the gesture, and the meaning beyond it, D’Artagnan found his own lips twitch in pleasure before he could stop them, and the three older Musketeers felt something unfurl in their chest as they saw that the worst of the storm had vanished. Their hands were a warm and relished weight upon those of D’Artagnan and Aramis, but it was nothing compared to the fire that spread through the four of them as their stares met, a universe of loyalty, love, trust, and devotion so powerful and overwhelming that the boy shed another tear at the thought of being part of that steely bond. This time, however, there was no pain in his young heart, only joy, and gratefulness, and more love.

 

“One for all” Athos stated intensely, his pale blue irises the color of the ocean in a summer morning.  
“And one for all” Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan grinned, keeping their position for a long, poignant minute, before, as one, the two older man grabbed the boy affectionately in a collective – and amusing, if Athos might say so himself – hug.

 

“Oi! _No tickling!_ ”  
“Is he ticklish!?”  
“Don’t you dare, pup! It’s your fault, Aramis! Stop him!”

Athos chuckled as he lazily enjoyed the show offered by his – wrestling, mostly, by now – brothers. Well, until a hand shot out from that tangle of limbs that were the three younger Musketeers to catch him off guard and drag him in the midst of the playful brawl..

 

Before he knew it, the Lieutenant found himself laying on the _bloody_ bed, Porthos collapsed somewhere near his head laughing so hard that the whole thing was shaking as if there was an earthquake. Aramis, equally out of breath, was pinning down Athos’ legs to keep him from moving, but it was only when saw the mischievous glint in D’Artagnan’s now shining orbs that he realized the impending danger.

_Or as he noticed the lad’s hands, raised and ready to strike.._

Athos stifled a groan as he moved – with remarkable skill, it must be said – to snatch his protégé’s wrists and keep him from ascertaining if the Lieutenant was ticklish too, but unfortunately, that’s when Porthos lunged. And _bloody Hell_ , the man was fast too…

 

Athos found himself with his own wrists pinned above his head before he could blink.  
And yes, he _was_ ticklish indeed.

 

But as he struggled to free himself from his brothers’ hold, threatening – uselessly – to kill them in their sleep, well, their delighted laughter echoing merrily in the usually too silent room were a reward enough.

 


End file.
